Remus Lupin, PI
by Larry Huss
Summary: Remus Lupin didn't graduate from Hogwarts to become an odd-jobs man. He always knew he would be fighting the good fight, he just didn't know on which side of the Law. In the end,he made his own side.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin, P.I. Part 1: The Lingering Scent of Blood

By Larry Huss

Born to be a wizard, cursed to be a werewolf: a life that might make anyone into a confirmed cynic. Add in a lunar-based inability to handle most regular jobs (and no inherited wealth), and having one of your three best friends kill the other two… a person could get bitter.

Getting nine N.E.W.T.S. with EE or better, and still having the prospect of life-long magical unemployment would tend to make you think that the wizarding world had pretty much screwed you. Being a werewolf meant that living in the mainstream of the Muggle world was a no-go also. If you were smart though, smart enough to get those nine N.E.W.T.S. in the first place, you might just be able to find a place in the shadow world. Where people don't talk too much of their private lives, or about going to their kid's dance recital. The place where Law and Crime, Truth and Lies, the day-to-day and the inexplicable meet each other like converging streams, causing currents and rapids. The place where results mean everything, and if you're discrete (and don't bite your clients) you just might be able to make a go of it.

?

Six months out of Hogwarts and Lupin couldn't even get hired peddling wart cream at a Hags' Convention. (Bournemouth, December 19th, 1978). He loved Sirius, Peter, and James like brothers, but he was sick of having them support him. Lupin knew he needed a job where he could make his own hours, and people didn't ask too many questions. It came to him one night as he sat in a cheap art-house cinema watching a poor-condition print of _The Maltese Falcon_. Two things actually: the first was simple; he wanted to get into Mary Astor's knickers. Aside from that he realized that Sam Spade's main qualifications for being a Private Investigator were having a driver's license and having his name on the door of an insanely dingy office. He could do that! The office bit; Mary Astor was probably too old for him now.

The next six months came close to killing him. Finding books on skip-tracing, tailing, basic detective work, disguises, photography, Muggle and Magical government Bureaucracy and how to use them was easy enough in London. Studying them while holding down a succession of dead-end jobs took twenty hours a day. Except for the times when he had to chain himself up when the moon was full; those were the days he could do nothing but suffer.

He tried to explain himself to his friends, but James and Sirius and Peter couldn't see why he couldn't just work the magic side of the street, if not just live off of their generosity indefinitely. They drew a little apart. When the other three joined the Order of the Phoenix he had to beg off; he had just gotten hired at a Muggle agency, and was studying for a driver's license. Sirius and James just shook their heads uncomprehendingly: "How you've changed Remus," they said, "It's like we don't know you at all, anymore." Peter was more accepting; with Remus floating to the outside of their Marauder circle, he was drifting inwards toward its center.

Working at the Agency was when he really learned the job. It was a low-rent bureau in a low-rent area. The pay was poor and the hours worse. Since he only took two days or so off a month they made allowances for him, as nobody was better doing a tail. How he traced who were raiding the petty cash drawer in one store after another was uncanny; it was like he could see the money being lifted at night. No one ever suggested he was putting a Tracking Charm on the money each night and following it. Yes, that was usually the key. That was one of the first lessons the Old Man who ran the place taught him; follow the money.

James and Lily married; Sirius was the best man and Peter was one of the groomsmen. Lupin made it to the wedding, but had to skip the reception afterwards; he had work as a bouncer/surveillance man that night. That was the night that a man two thirds his size, without an ounce of the extra strength that being a werewolf gives even a human form, threw him around like a rag doll. It was an important night for him; it taught him skill beats strength nine out of ten times. He learned that, and he learned skill.

Lily had a baby, a real little charmer. Lupin visited whenever he had a chance, though he could tell that they (James especially) had developed certain… reservations about him. Still, he could set them laughing, even the baby, with stories of stakeouts, pursuits through trashcan strewn alleys, and the incredible optimism of Muggle shoplifters who came into store dressing rooms slender, and tried to leave the place wearing twelve or more pairs of pants at once. Of course, the baby was mainly amused by his ability to do an elegant pratfall; still, for that age it was a sign of intelligence.

It was the week he quit the Agency that things really fell apart for him. The Old Man had been a bit of a bastard, but a fairly passive one who just wanted his agents to do their job so he could underpay them. When he retired his son took over, a far more active bastard who harassed the secretaries, screamed at those doing the dirty work, and demanded everyone take a pay-cut. Within two days the firms overhead was slashed, and half those employed quit or managed to get fired. Lupin was considering hitting James up for a loan (if he could find him; he was in hiding) when the news came. Sirius had sold them out to the Death Eaters.

Lupin went to his basement apartment, chained himself up (it was that time of the month), and spent the time waiting for the moon to rise getting totally smashed on cheap Irish whiskey. Oddest thing, his wolf form was actually a cheerful drunk, and didn't even fight the chains or bite itself. Still, the next morning the hangover was immense, he was unemployed, and the best part of his world… the part that had always given him comfort… was destroyed. James and Peter and Lily were dead, Sirius a traitor. Little Harry, where ever he was, an orphan.

?

It took him two months, but Lupin managed to shake himself out of his fugue. A middle aged secretary at his old place, who had been mother-henning him, managed to get him a good set of references out of the new boss. The man's short attention span and tendency to sign anything placed in front of him made that possible. Seeing how easy it was, and knowing just when to strike, she then proceeded to get sterling references for all of her many favorites (she was a kindly person), and finally herself as she went out the door for the last time. That was a lesson or two for Lupin in that too. He learned it as she joked about her last day at work, at a luncheon he had bought for her. Staff makes or breaks a business that deals in personal services, so get them on your side!

Times were tough; he certainly didn't build up any Patronus-class memories for the next half year. He did freelance magical bodyguarding and worked at a dueling academy. The last, even though he was little more than an animated target dummy, taught him dodging, blocking, and targeting skills way beyond those the ever-changing DADA teachers at Hogwarts had ever done.

It was a messy and unpleasant divorce case that got him a break. No one really liked doing that sort of job, but it's the bread and butter of the PI profession. When a Muggle acquaintance with a too-full case load recommended him for it, he accepted it as a rent-payer, nothing more. When the Spanish Ambassador's Squib cousin, the unexpected bodies in the basement, and the deep-cover agent from Grindewald's War got into the picture Lupin had to improvise quickly. His old Marauder instincts kicked in, and he played one end against the other against the other. He learned how much of the wolf leaked through into his day-to-day, and how to use it. In the end the Squib was safe, the basement-filler turned over to the Aurors, and the Agent was allowed to return to obscurity. The Husband, saved 12,000 pounds alimony a month, gave Lupin a bonus, and spread his name wide.

Lupin got his dingy office with his name on the door, a service to clean it, and another to handle his telephone and mail. He upgraded his clothing from tattered to shabby, and as business picked up went all the way to out-of-style. He managed to afford an auto but going for a firearms permit just wasn't worth the trouble or expense. He now and then, here and there, started to date.

He rented a small house in an unfashionable neighborhood. One night the girl he had picked up at a bar wandered into the basement, saw all the chains and other werewolf handling equipment, and decided he was excitingly kinky. She became his experimental-minded girlfriend for the next three weeks, and proved to him: 1) He liked girlfriends. 2) He was not kinky. 3) She was, and they split up.

It was on July 28th, 1983 that he remembered that Harry Potter had a birthday coming up, and that he had already skipped a year sending James' kid a present. In a hurry he sent a Muggle Children's Art Set, and a Wizarding Card, to Harry Potter. Lupin knew how good the Owl Post was about sending things with incomplete addresses. That's why he was a little irritated when it came back to him, "Address Unknown." He didn't need the art kit, or the card, so he decided to take an afternoon off and go down to the Ministry and ask a few people he knew there how to get something to Harry. The wizarding world was small enough that whoever was taking care of the child should be easy to trace.

Three days later he hadn't used up his patience, but he had used up all his government contacts. The best of them were also puzzled about the Boy-Who-Lived having disappeared off the face of the world, and asked him to let them know when he was located. Even Gringotts wouldn't take a fee for the information; either they didn't know, or someone big was leaning on them. Lupin decided to take a break for the weekend.

In fact, he took two weeks off from the Potter Problem, and used it to clean up five cases ranging from the mundane (someone _was_ trying to poison the old lady for her estate), to the esoteric (how the ghost exorcised the Exorcist). After that last one he treated himself to a night out. The next morning, as he lay in bed listening to the girl he had scored with the night before rustling around preparing breakfast something she had said came back into his mind. Schools, especially those that were big into Legacy students, kept track of addresses with a passion. Among other things they were always hinting that a donation to some building fund or scholarship would guarantee admission for the next generation. Yeah, Lupin knew Hogwarts was like that; he received some solicitation or other from them at least once a month. He got up and rewarded her for the idea.

Breakfast was very late that day.

It didn't take him long to discover Hogwarts current staff set up. Imagine, Snape teaching! The important thing was that McGonagall was still Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor. He could work with her. When they were in school Lupin had been the Marauder's diplomat and contact with the Powers That Be. It was mostly because he wouldn't snivel and break down crying like Peter, or try to prank them while he was in their office trying to get forgiveness for the last prank, like Sirius.

He wrote McGonagall a letter. He meant it to be short, but it grew as he discovered more and more things he wanted to tell her. His recent Great Harry Hunt was gone into in full and comedic detail, as well as a request that she help him get rid of the birthday gift currently cluttering up the hallway. He expected her response would be short and no-nonsense; that's the way she was. Either "Sorry, no forwarding address, delighted to hear how well you are doing," or else "Address the package to Harry Potter at such and such a street and town. Delighted to hear how well you are doing."

When a Phoenix dropped off a gracious note from Albus Dumbledore, requesting the pleasure of his presence at Hogwarts at his earliest convenience, but preferably tomorrow PM, Lupin was a trifle surprised.

?

Lupin managed to get up to Hogwarts by 2 PM the next day. After working in a far more security-conscious world he noticed a certain sloppiness about things; doors not locked and half the windows uncloseable. How he remembered those gloriously chilly breezes going through the corridors during Winter of Seventh Year. He supposed he was just suffering from the normal disappointment people have, coming back to a remembered impressive place, and finding the reality diminished. Still, it was Hogwarts and would always be impressive to him to some extent.

He didn't do any checking of the school wards; as an official Dark Creature he was pretty certain it wouldn't be appreciated. As he went through the corridors leading to the Headmaster's office he saw what he considered another Dark Creature striding away from it.

"Hello Snape. Congratulations on your employment here. It will be quite a bonus for your resume when you leave here."

"Ah, the wolf. Yes it will be, if I ever get to leave here. Congratulations to you, on not being eliminated by overeager Aurors during the late unpleasantness. Now you must excuse me; I have many preparations to make, and social engagements to attend. I'm Lucius Malfoy's son's Godfather, did you know?"

"I'm sure that will work out splendidly for both of you. Give them my regards." Lupin said the last part with as fang-baring a tone as he could do on a bright day.

Snape didn't really seem all that happy with teaching at the school. He appeared to doubt that he was as cleared of a Death Eater reputation as he'd like. _That _would certainly limit his job opportunities, though not as much as being a werewolf.

At the gargoyle Lupin announced himself. It being summer with no children about, and he not being from the Ministry, that was good enough to get him admitted. The Headmaster was in and gracious as ever.

After having refused a lemon candy (his nose had identified the potion it contained) and some tea, the business at hand was quickly brought up.

"Young Harry is being taken care of in a loving environment. His security being of paramount importance his location is known only to a restricted few, of which you, despite your past history with his parents, are not one." Dumbledore had the nicest way of saying that you were a untrustworthy beast.

"Well, Headmaster, assuming you're one of those privileged could you just give him one last present from his Uncle Moony, the last of the Marauders? I'm not asking for his address; just give him the paint kit and card, and I'll promise to not do this again next year." With this Lupin took the shrunken package from his pocket and expanded it to its original size.

Dumbledore checked for tracking spells, including on the card, and finally gave a nod of agreement. He took it from Lupin and placed it on his desk, promising to have it properly dealt with within the week. He then allowed the detective to see that he was a terribly kind and courteous man with far too much to do, and who would (politely) appreciate the unwanted guest leaving with all dispatch. As Lupin was used to this treatment when he dealt with the Wizarding clients he made his farewells and managed to get the last Express back to London.

?

Lupin was fairly sure that Dumbledore had not kept up certain recent trends in current Wizarding manners. Everyone wanted to know that that those they had gotten gifts for appreciated all the cost and effort. Accordingly, at the finer stores (and Lupin wouldn't have gone to anything less, for James and Lilly's kid) when the gift was first used or the card read, the receipt turned red. He hadn't put any tracking spells on his gifts, but he had gotten the best animated card that **Flourishes & Blots **had in stock. A month later the receipt was still not red. Somehow Lupin wasn't surprised, though he wasn't able to do anything about it right now.

He decided it was time that he put away childish things and memories away. It was time to finally kill the Marauders. Or at least his last illusions about them. He was going to confront Sirius, spit in his eye, and tell him that rotting in Hell was too good for him. Then just turn away and close that chapter in the Life and Times of Remus Lupin, forever.

It was surprisingly easy to get in to see a prisoner in Azkaban. The request to do so was so rare, and the inconvenience so great that it was an unusual event, and a welcome diversion for the Staff. While they had some protection even they were constantly depressed by the Dementors, and appreciated a diversion from the routine once in a while. True, they treated him like garbage, but he was used to that.

He was searched before being let in the stinking and filthy cell, of course. He might have been smuggling in a wand, or food, or worst of all a poison pill to allow the only real escape anyone ever had from Azkaban.

The guard let him in, then locked the door behind him and left. Lupin wasn't sure if there were listeners or not. This was supposed to be a private conversation, but realistically…

"Hello Sirius, long time no see."

"It that you Moony? Really? How long have I been in here?"

"A few years. Not long enough really. How could you do it?" At the end Lupin's voice was a roar.

Black's reply was almost a broken whisper: "I didn't, it was Peter."

"Blaming the dead is easy. He couldn't: you held the secret, there's no getting around it."

Black began to laugh softly. "We were so clever, Peter and I. Dumbledore said there was a secret traitor among us. We were worried the traitor was you, so we switched Keepers. That way if you led the Death Eater's to me, James and Lily would still be safe. The news that Lord Black was taken would have spread fast enough that Peter would have had a chance to run. Perfect plan, or at least good enough. _If _you were the traitor, not Peter."

"The Prosecutor must have had a field day with that story at your trial! You were never good at lying at School; I doubt even Voldemort was able to teach you how do it under Veritaserum. Merlin! You were never this pitiable before."

"Check the trial record for what I said, if you can. That should convince you."

"Warder! I'm done here." Lupin shouted out.

?

Damn Black. He had always known how to get under Lupin's skin and get him to do more than his fair share of assignments and research. He had known that after a challenge like that the trial record had to be checked, each word gone over with repeated care. What Black didn't know was how good Lupin and gotten at interpreting the bald, written statements of testimony and records. Once the transcript was read it would all be over, and Lupin wouldn't have to think about the prisoner ever again.

The trial transcript was illuminating. Not only wasn't it on public record, but it wasn't even recorded as a sealed document. There was no trouble getting hold of the arresting Auror notes. The problem was the active duty logs for the members of the team that brought Black in showed them to have had their normal patrol duties during the period when any trial would have had to take place, they had never been called in to give witness. Since the newspapers hadn't been coy about reporting him being sent to Azkaban it wasn't as if there had been anything secret about him being in custody. It was almost as if there had never been a trial, just three days from the Potter killings to Sirius getting put in Azkaban for… there actually was no record of what his sentence was. Twenty years? Life? Why not the Kiss, if he was guilty of multiple murders? It was if he was just grabbed and shoved into a cell without any involvement of the legal system at all. It smelled more and more political.

Lupin knew he could always ask a member of the Wizengamot if they had tried Black sub rosa in that small space of time. Hell, he could even ask the Chief Warlock, but he doubted that Dumbledore would be all that forthcoming. Still, you don't flourish in the PI trade without learning a bit about how to trace things from unpromising leads. Family was supposed to be notified when justice was done on those who had harmed them. Lily had surviving family, a sister with another flower name. Petunia, yes, that was it.

Lupin did his personal investigation on a time-available basis. If he didn't have a decent case to pursue, or a decent bird, he slowly traced records back. The Potter wedding announcements in the wizarding papers; that led to Lily's home town. Local Evans weren't related, but the Muggle newspaper there led to the sister's wedding to someone named Dursley. Dursley was a junior executive for a drill company, Grunnings.

Getting the Dursley's home address from a bored secretary in the Grunnings HR department only required a salad bar lunch. The night out and morning after were a tribute to her other talents. Her name went into his book, for later consideration.

The more he thought about, and remembered talking with Lily back at school, the more he became convinced that Petunia had not been a great admirer of Wizarding Britain. Getting her to open up about the death of, and vengeance for, her sister might be a delicate operation. He decided to observe a bit; preparation is hardly ever wasted. Also, it gave him an excuse to come around a bit and chat up Bev in Human Resources.

By now it was October; people were back from vacation and infidelity was in the air. Also, shoplifting and an interesting little case of insurance fraud that completely slipped past the regular investigator. Not a surprise, that, as she had been in on it from the start.

After the full moon (he still kept to a locked room, though he had discovered vodka and Prozac made for a very mellow Wolf) Lupin decided to finish off the Dursley connection, find it a final dead end, and call it all quits. Except for Bev, who made him laugh. She was curious about his interest in "the Boar," as Vernon was not-too affectionately known in the company. Having the credentials, and an innocent motive, he pretty much told her the truth. He just left out the parts about magic, werewolves, terrorist murder, and suspected government cover up. Hardly anything important, really.

It was on the third day of his little working vacation that he noticed that Petunia was going to the market with two children in tow. Or rather, one large child in a stroller, and a smaller one being dragged wrenchingly hard behind her as she went at a pace far too swift for his short legs. Lupin shadowed her on foot into the market, saw the large child being given candy (never to be paid for), and the smaller one a good shot behind the ear. A small skinny child with wild black hair, green eyes, scarred forehead, skinned knees, bruised shins, and the name Harry.

?

Lupin hardly paused; no one without a trained eye would have noticed his sudden hesitation, and continued to follow them up the aisles. He noticed how Petunia addressed the two children, and who was cuffed behind the ear for no particular reason. The approach plan was simplicity itself.

Changing aisles he grabbed a candy bar, at the next aisle a high protein (and moderately tasteless) granola bar. Then, tracking the bickering trio by their high audio level, he came up their aisles to their front, opening the candy bar as if it was going to be his next snack. Going up to about six feet in front of them Lupin stopped, looked at a shelf, then lets his head turn toward the slowly advancing group and let a big smile cover his face. He hoped it looked sentimental and fond, psychopathic and ravenous really what was needed in this case.

"Well, well. I hope you don't mind Ma'am? It's just… my girlfriend and I have been getting serious lately, and there I see the kind of family we'd been talking about. I guess she's getting me a bit mushy about things. Do you mind if I give him this?" Lupin gestured with the candy bar.

The child in the stroller immediately started making such a clamor that Petunia didn't have the heart to deny it to him, or the opportunity to berate the stranger for speaking without being introduced.

"I suppose the other… child should get something also, it would look mean otherwise, wouldn't it?" Lupin said and tossed the granola bar to the walking disgrace. Then it was time for chatting up Mother P. Telling her how obvious it was she knowledgeable about child raising: did she have recommendations about books on the subject, did she know any good but affordable catering places in the area for the inevitable happy event he and his sweetheart were probably going to be having sometime in the next year. All the warmth and kindness in Lupin's naturally friendly nature flowed out, making Petunia forgive his familiar manners. As they say, when you can sincerely fake sincerity you have it made.

While "Duddykins" smeared his face with the hastily eaten chocolate, Harry carefully unwrapped his bar and slowly savored each small bite he took, a look of pleasure slowly filling his face as his day-long hunger was dealt with.

Finally Lupin took his leave of a smiling and ego-stroked Petunia, shaking the dirty hand of "manly" little Dudley, and absent-mindedly ruffling the wild hair (snagging a few strands) of the "other one."

It was only later that Lupin realized he had never gotten around to asking her about Sirius Black, or if she had been told that her sister's death had ever been avenged. Looking at it again he knew that even if she had been informed that the killer was in prison, the ins and outs of wizarding legal system wouldn't have been explained to a Muggle anyway. The only way of confirming if Black had been tried would be to ask Dumbledore and that would not only bring no real answer, but it would put Lupin on a "watch list" of some sort. He also realized that innocent or guilty there was too much evidence that Black had never been given his day in court. No matter how guilty… in fact the guiltier the better… his trial would have been a feather in the cap for the Aurors, showing how hard and effectively they worked and getting them a second day's headlines to match the ones they got when they had first caught him. The lack of records, the lack of column-inches, the endless litany of "He must have been tried, funny I don't remember it" all told everything that had to be said about that matter.

Lupin took out an old photo of the Marauders from school and took a Muggle photograph of it. He cut out James' picture, and put it in the proper place alphabetically in an old "mug-shot" album he had gotten from the trash behind a local police station when they had gotten rid of it as being out-moded. On the shelf of his office it had given things a fine look of professionalism.

He suspended the book on a cord with the spine up, and the pages all slightly separated, and cast a minor identification and matching spell on the hairs he had gotten from "the other one." They hopped up into the book like a scared sparrow. He then carefully put the book down on his desk, and page by page went through it. There, on the Pi-Ra page all the hairs were attached to the Muggle photograph of James Potter. Identity confirmed: Harry Potter.

?

Author's Notes:

Remus is about five years out of Hogwarts; Harry is three and a bit. There are still odd reports of Death Eater sightings in the Wizarding Press, and Remus agrees that Harry would be dangerously exposed if treated as a regular wizarding child.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own, or receive benefit from the Harry Potter properties

Remus Lupin, P.I. Part 2: Starting a Long Stalk

By Larry Huss

So… he had found Harry James Potter. James' child (in fact the only child any of the Marauders) was a scrawny brat that looked to be borderline neglected/abused. It didn't prove anything about Sirius; not guilt or innocence. For the first time Lupin had to think of what he would do if Black was innocent. Appeal for justice? Fat chance that a Dark Creature could get the creaky gears of what the Wizarding World called Justice into motion. A jailbreak? No one had ever escaped from Azkaban; five hundred years of success proved that it was impossible. Of course… after five hundred years of unbroken success they were certainly going to be a bit complacent… he had seen a lot of looseness in procedures in his visit to Black. He seemed to remember the latest few requests for a major Wards upgrade for the prison being voted down as too expensive and unnecessary.

It was all madness. There was no real _proof_ Black was innocent. Yes, Lupin knew he would have to observe the Dursleys and see if his fears about Harry were true, but that had nothing to do with his uncertainty about Sirius.

He read again everything from the crime-scene investigation and the papers. Clearly, Black had used a spell that ignited a gas main that exploded, killing the Muggles and destroying everything of Peter but his finger. There was even a picture of the finger on page 4 of the Daily Prophet. It looked… yes, it looked a bit… off. Lupin checked through the copy he had of the Black Case Auror notes. He had skimmed over the grisly photographs when he originally went over the case; ogling the last remains of his heroic little friend hadn't appealed to him then, and hadn't seemed important. Yes, there it was. The original crime scene photo that the newspaper had gotten a copy of. The finger, lying in a pool of blood, authenticated as belonging to Peter Pettigrew. Lupin scavenged the mutilated Muggle picture of the Marauders out of the waste bin.

?

Lupin had been invited, and had attended, Peter's burial. There wasn't much of a body to bury; it was mostly a chance to hold a ceremony, and to erect a cenotaph. But a small coffin had been interred, and should hold all that remained of Peter. Lupin often had to "dig for evidence," this was just the first time the digging would involve actual grave robbing.

It was good that Lupin was working on an accelerated schedule. The cemetery was due to be emptied, the remains remaining to be cremated, and the area to be used for a suburban housing tract in the spring, when the weather would be better for construction. As things turned out, anyone who saw him digging must have thought him a surveyor doing a little soil testing. The small casket holding the remains was still in place.

Back home, examining the shriveled digit, Lupin had his suspicions confirmed. The finger was not the last piece of a man left over from an explosion. It was definitely cut off, not blown off. The problem wasn't that the Aurors were behind the times compared to Muggle police forces in their forensic work. The problem was that they had known what they wanted to find before they got there, and had merely collected evidence to confirm their expectations. They hadn't looked at anything with a critical eye, and now would deeply resent any insinuation that they had bungled the investigation.

By now, political careers would be endangered if Sirius was released. No Dark Creature… and known friend… of the man would be allowed to cause such a situation. With a thousand years of legislation on hand, something or other could surely be found to discredit the evidence. It would be destroyed by "accident" or substituted for, or labeled as being inconclusive. For that matter a Dark Creature going missing wouldn't be too hard to arrange; a genuine aristocrat had been effectively "vanished" fairly well as it was.

Lupin made the final test, and found with no surprise that in fact it was Pettigrew's finger, cut off at an angle that was most easily explained as being from a wand held in the person's other hand. He sealed it away with the best preservative spells he could find, along with a signed-in-blood Wizard's Oath that swore to its authenticity, and his conclusions. He took it to a reliable solicitor the next day, with an "open in the event of my death" instruction. It might not do much, but it was the best thing he could think of.

?

Lupin decided not to visit Sirius for a few months; showing up asking to see a prisoner too often might cause people to start thinking. Thinking people guarding Azkaban was the last thing Lupin wanted. Also, he had some preparations to make; he was sure that there was at least occasional monitoring of communications with prisoners, and he wanted to give Sirius something to help deal with the Dementors. This left him only having to deal with the 'Harry situation', and actually making a living.

Over the next month Lupin was only able to devote about three days to prolonged surveillance of the inhabitants of 4 Privet Drive, and two evenings of Breaking and Entering in the local offices dealing with support for dependent children and the National Health Service. Add in two evenings (work _can_ be fun) with Bev and Lupin was fairly certain of a few more facts:

1-Harry James Potter was as close to being a non-official person as was possible in modern Britain. His records were few and far between; the Dursley's hadn't registered him with the NHS, and weren't getting any supplementary government monetary aide for raising him.

2-The house at 4 Privet Drive was surrounded by powerful and unusual wards. Getting within the house would be a difficult thing for any hostile wizard, and would also set off a number of strange detection and alarm spells.

3- The Dursleys had been tampered with. Their natural paranoia and stuffy conformity had definitely been kicked up a notch by some means too subtle for Lupin to identify. From a few conversations with strolling neighbors, Lupin was able to confirm that their emotional range had become smaller and less open recently. A note of obsessive conformity had become obvious within a few months of Harry's arrival. Even "the other one" had been a more outgoing and friendly child at first, and had slowly begun withdrawing into sullen silence. Lupin wondered about some of the strange wards; they might have psychological components to their effects.

4- The Dursleys were a little cash-strapped, doing all their own maintenance even when it was a bit beyond their skills. Their car was a junker and Petunia had not signed up Dudley for pre-school when she had heard the costs involved.

All these things put together added up to a plan of action. Lupin slowly put in place a paper existence for a four year old boy named Harold "Harry" Timmons. The boy didn't exist (yet) but all of his paperwork was forged on official forms (stolen from all the best official offices) and put, back-dated, into all the proper official files. The computer records he contracted out, all he had to do was Aport into the right office with the right terminal in the night, and upload a prepared diskette to create the official record of Harold "Harry" Timmons, orphan, living with a nice old couple that had taken care of foster children before.

A trip to Gringotts confirmed that while Lupin didn't have the cash to do the job right, someone else he knew did. Whoever had sent Sirius to Azkaban without even a farce of a trial had made another mistake. No trial meant that there had never been an official block put on the Black accounts. Once Sirius was out of sight, he had become out of mind, and even the likeliest heirs had assumed everything had been seized by the government. Sloppy, sloppy work, but there was no reason not take advantage of it. That was, of course, if he could convince Sirius that this wasn't all just a con being run on someone who couldn't investigate or complain.

?

It was in February 1984 that Remus Lupin, aspiring author of a book on the Potter Murders, went out to Azkaban equipped for all contingencies. In a satchel suspended from his shoulder were two bottles of Blishen's Firewhiskey (for the guards), notepads, self-inking quills, a Muggle cigar lighter (without fuel), a few snacks, two bottles of butterbeer, and three bars of chocolate. Hidden in the pockets of his new robe were an unsigned bank draft for 20,000 galleons, a limited Power of Substitution for Harry Potter's Godfather, a sheaf of notes on Muggle flash paper, and ten pounds of chocolate in rat-proof wrappings.

As Lupin was let into cell by the warder (impatient to get back to the Common Room where the quality booze was being shared out) Sirius looked noticeably more ragged. When the cell door clanked shut behind the hurrying guard Sirius' face only brightened slightly. Before he could speak Lupin gave him one of the chocolate bars from the satchel, and begun unloading his robe's inner pockets. Sirius didn't stop gnawing on his treat as he grabbed the ten parcels and began to hide them in dark corners and behind the few furnishings in cell. Lupin pulled the only chair in the place over to the cot, and brought out his notes.

When Sirius came over to the cot and sat down Lupin began to ask him about his early upbringing, for his book on the creation of a fiend. Sirius was glad to provide this background information; all the while reading the flash paper sheets Lupin was passing him:

** 1-Checked, no trial or possibility of one due to time involved and no witnesses ever called.**

** 2-Peter's finger not blasted off was spell-cut. You using blasting spell story can't be supported.**

** 3-Your Gringotts accounts still accessible. Will explain importance later.**

** 4-Doubt possibility of legal redress in current situation, still some DE around, etc. and careers in Mini and Wiz and Aurors would be hurt.**

** 5-Peter disappeared completely, confusing. Why not survive as hero? **

** 6-Found Pronglet, unhappy situation requiring papers signing. Sinew of War: money. Always my shortfall.**

** 7-OFH involved, invoking FGG. You know what that means.**

** 8-Would like to hide fawn in herd, re: Power of Substitution to make legal if caught and challenged.**

While cheerfully describing horrible and unnatural (and untrue) acts his parents had engaged in while raising him Sirius took one of the quills and wrote below point 7: **Our Favorite Headmaster invoking For the Greater Good? I wonder who the victim of Virtue is this time. Wait, wait, I've got it. It's either Harry or me!**

On the sheet with point 5 Sirius wrote: **Remember Peter/Snivelus and the Great House Elf Caper? He plans well, but breaks under interrogation, and knows it.**

Below point 8 Sirius merely added: ** All I can do here is sign things, at least it's not a false confession this time!**

At that Lupin passed over the two official documents. Sirius signed them quickly, though he goggled just for a second when he saw the size of the bank draft on his account. Then Lupin rolled up the notes, flicked open the cigar lighter, and spun the igniter wheel. Without any fuel there wasn't any flame, just a shower of sparks. As these hit the flash paper they flared up, and disappeared in a burst of light and smoke. There was no evidence that the paper had ever existed, not even ash that could be used to recreate what had been written on it.

A half-hour later a cheerful guard (a rare sight in Azkaban) came to interrupt the interview with Sirius Black, mass murderer. It had reached his preparing to leave for Hogwarts, and his parents telling him to do well in Potions, since you could never know when you would need a good poison. Lupin left Azkaban unsearched; after all, what of value could you smuggle _out _of the place? Now came the first, delicate, part of the plan.

?

Lupin constructed the alternate personality of Farley Wilkins, child buyer. Why he was going around buying children was left up to speculation, but he did have proper business cards and a sheaf of forms switching guardianship of minors from one person to another. They might not be exactly legal, in the sense that if the government of Great Britain (or anywhere in the civilized Muggle world) had investigated what was on them someone was going to go to jail. As far as Wizarding Britain was concerned they were just inside the outer edge of allowable terminology for a transfer of non-parental guardianship. The top sheet of the multi-copy form had a part in writing guaranteed not to be seen by Muggles that would automatically register (much as self-updating Wizard books automatically changed) with the Ministry of Magic Department of Records as a legitimate transfer. Now the problem was getting the head of household to sign on the right line.

Lupin kept abreast of Muggle affairs, particularly those dealing with money handling. Within the next few years it was likely that a system for transferring government payments to an individual's accounts without actually sending them physically through the mails would be instituted. He knew he had to move before then. Currently the Dursleys hadn't registered Harry as a dependent child they were taking care of. They were too conventional and proud to have the entire neighborhood know that they had to accept the Government dole. If they had been getting cheques in the mail for Harry the mailman would have spread the news, and all their neighbors would have known within days and made kindly cutting remarks to Petunia on their unfortunate financial situation. Lupin knew he had to strike before this opportunity to use their pride had passed.

So, on a fine weekend afternoon in early spring of 1984, Farley Wilkins made contact with Vernon Dursley, as the proud papa watched his son shove "the other" into a patch of mud.

"Interesting, yes. Just the sort of child I'm looking for."

Vernon, seeing that the man was looking at where little Dudkins was being manly ,began to redden at some… anyone checking out his child. You read about people like that in the newspapers. The fellow was wearing too much cologne anyway to be a "normal" chap.

"And what's your interest in my son Mister… "

Looking back and forth between the two Dursleys for a moment the fine haired blond man finally gave a small chuckle and replied: "Oh, I'm not interested in the normal one. It's the dark-haired rug rat that I could use. Oh, where _are_ my manners? Farley Wilkins, your servant." He then gave a little head bob, and then presented his card.

**Farley Wilkins**

**Assistant Chief Procurement Agent**

**Rainsford and Zaroff, LLC**

**Biological Research and Human Development**

_A Humane Business, Working for Humanity_

**1857 Knightscourt Rd, SW London 7780213**

**774531 982 778 fax 11235 631 418**1

"We're doing studies on dietary supplements, you know, for selling to Third World countries who want to justify getting Foreign Aide by saying 'It's for the Children.' Well, we can't do our testing over there, conditions are too random in Wogland, and we can never control all the variables. Importing their little darlings…" this being said with a full bore sneer, "…gets held up in Immigration. Too many diseases and parasites. You know it's true."

Vernon gave a grim nod. He well knew how much the world was a hell-hole outside of Britain, and perhaps some of Europe.

The man continued: "So I look for tykes that don't thrive very well on regular treatment for our multi-year studies. We take full responsibility for them, of course. And there's a little bit of an honorarium given to the families that volunteer them for the advancement of British science and commerce."

Vernon was all for the advancement of British science, and even more so for the advancement of British commerce. He was especially all for honorariums given to families that volunteered un-thriving children for biological research. Times were tight, and would continue to be so until he got his next well-deserved promotion. While the freak didn't cost all that much currently, he still was a drain on the family finances, and a distraction for poor Pet with his constant fevers and whining. There was an opportunity here; and after all, this was for Science, he wasn't actually selling the child to some foreigner to be taken to some foreign country and... altered for immoral purposes. At least he could convince himself that wasn't the case.

Vernon casually asked, "About how much do these honorariums usually amount to?"

"Not much, really." Wilkins said; "Ten, or rarely fifteen thousand, on the outside. It's just to make it more official, you know. Nothing is very real until money changes hands."

Ten thousand pounds would fix _that, _and buy _this_, and clear up the mortgage for the next few years. But Vernon Dursley was no-one's fool; he wasn't going to sell (or rent if he had to) his own beloved flesh-and-blood for the lowest bid. He offered Harry Potter for a good twenty-five thousand (cash, no checks) on the barrelhead. Their bargaining sessions was long and hard (but good natured) until Wilkins at last raised his offer to eighteen thousand, and only because he was a little behind on his quota for the month. They shook hands on that; Wilkins promised to come over noonish the next day with a standard contract and pick up the material… freak… boy.

Petunia was surprisingly reluctant to the deal. It wasn't as if she held any affection for the child, but he was Family, and deserved some caution in being boarded out. Still, it was the weekend, and therefore hard to check up on things, and she loved to see Vernon so cheerful and lively. So she gathered up all of Lily's old things and brought them down for either accompanying Harry on his travels or discard if he couldn't take them.

When Wilkins came, and handed over more cash than either Dursley had ever seen firsthand, Vernon did not cackle or dance. In his most businesslike manner he checked a few bills at random to see if any of the signs that he knew of for counterfeits were present, found the money was real, and signed on the line indicated to transfer Harry James Potter to the care and authority of the Receiving Party, indicated in another part of the contract. He actually looked at that clause; but found the print small and his eyes blurring (did he need glasses? Surely he wasn't old enough for his eyesight to be going!).

All in all, it took no more than half an hour for the legal guardianship of Harry Potter to be transferred to Remus Lupin. His name, as such, didn't appear on the copy of the contract the Dursleys were given, only on the top sheet that Vernon had actually signed and Lupin had pocketed. Vernon was most helpful; he even carried out Harry's things to the car. The great grin on his face as Wilkins drove off with the freak promised a more cheerful Dursley in the future.

In fact that promise was fulfilled. As the wards on the house were no longer being fueled by Potter magic they slowly faded, including the parts that made the family suspicious and overly protective of known blood relations. If the Headmaster had realized that Vernon and Petunia had stopped thinking of the Potters as such long before Harry's orphaning, he might not have included those fiddly bits which had made them more suspicious and hostile to the boy than they would have been ordinarily. As it was, as the wards faded a more civic minded and neighborly Dursley family became apparent, to the relief of the neighbors.

When the wards collapsed fully, a year and a half later, Dumbledore found only a copy of a contract, with interesting blank spaces, and a business card leading to a real corporation that denied ever having had such a person as Farley Wilkins as an employee.

?

When his auto was in a suitably deserted area Lupin lifted the enchantment that disguised its appearance and license number. Being inside the illusion, neither Harry nor he noticed the change. It was only later, when Lupin took off the illusionary appearance he had put on himself to throw off possible later pursuit, did Harry go all bug eyed and open mouthed. This was even better than the puppet show he had seen buskers do in the Park one afternoon during the Summer. He applauded.

Lupin was glad that the child wasn't as terrified of magic as the Dursleys were. He was at a loss on how to explain to a child of less than four that he was being legally kidnapped (the purpose of both Sirius' and Vernon's signing papers were for the legal part) and was never (with luck) again to see the place that had been his home for the last few years. Lupin felt that getting informed consent from a four year old was really not a possibility, and just told the child that he was going someplace where he would be given sausage and mash, with ice cream to follow. "Not old bread?" Harry asked. On being assured of the difference his only comment was "go faster!"

As they drove the last few miles to their destination Lupin carefully went over a few basic facts: the child was still to answer to the name Harry, just it was now short for Harold Timmons. He could tell no one he was called Potter until he was a big boy. He should never mention the name Dursley again.

"No Ant 'Tunia, no Unca Vernon, no wunnerful Duddikins. I'm Harry Timmons, Timmons, Timmons. An I don't know no Dursleys. Ever again, promise?"

At Lupin's promise the boy just wiggled back a little into the seat and smiled. Sausages and ice cream and no Unca Vernon; could a day get any better than this?

The Andersons were a late middle-aged couple, perhaps a bit on the strict side, but far from abusive. Their own children long gone, they had handled several short-term foster care children for the local Agency, with good reports from both the Case Workers and their temporary wards. When the nice Mr. Lupin had made the arrangements for them to have a long term care situation they were pleased. Children made a home a Home they felt, and they missed the little excitements of having one living with them. Since Mr. Lupin would be augmenting the normal Council payments for care with a few hundred pounds a month extra there seemed no problem, as long as the child was honest and diligent. They were waiting eagerly in their parlor when the two travelers arrived.

The child was smaller than they had expected, and grubbier. But he was polite in a slightly shy way, and once fed and allowed to bathe in _hot water_ went to bed with little fuss. After Mr. Lupin brought in all the boy's things he gave them their first supplementary payment, with a bit more to get some clothing that wasn't absurdly large and tattered. Mrs. Anderson thought that this might work out very well; the child had a very sweet smile.

On Monday Remus Lupin P.I. went, as he had often done in the past, to the large and poorly organized records storage archive in the Ministry of Magic. Once alone (not that hard to arrange, considering the long tea breaks of the staff) he carefully misfiled the copy of the Power of Substitution form for Harry James Potter that had appeared (by Magic) in the files, casting a small spell to prevent any casual Summoning spell from pulling it up. Unless the proper identification code was used it was going to be hidden as deeply as one snowflake in a glacier. A needle in a haystack was in plain sight compared to that!

For the next few years Harry Timmons was regularly visited (two or three times a month) by Mr. Lupin. The young man was often a guest for dinner at the Anderson home, and saw young Harry slowly begin to recover from the "loving attentions" of his protective blood kin.

The "Harry situation" was under control, Lupin thought. Now, what can I do about Sirius?

Authors Notes:

1 The numbers and address indicated were chosen at random, and corresponds to no real business to my knowledge.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own, or receive, any benefits from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 3: Why Wolves Howl at the Moon

By Larry Huss

Twice a year Lupin visited Azkaban and smuggled in enough supplies to slow, if not halt, Sirius' slow decline. More often would have been suspicious; less often would have let Sirius run out of one of the few counters to the terror of the Dementors. Sometimes Lupin thought the photos of Harry, and later on the short, childish, notes the boy wrote, were really what helped the prisoner's mental state the most.

Despite his best efforts Lupin couldn't figure out an escape plan for Sirius. Just using dead reckoning and some Muggle satellite images of the North Sea he had pinned the island down to one of a small archipelago between 50 and 70 miles out to sea that were considered useless, a navigational hazard , and marked as a "no go" area by both Muggle and Wizarding governments. Too much poking around would surely have been detected. How to escape from the cell was actually the most trivial of problems. In the high security area Sirius was kept Dementors often roamed freely, with instructions to Kiss any prisoners out of their cells and not properly escorted.

Sirius suggested that he starve himself enough to slip through the bars in his Grim form; when he wasn't a human the aura of the Dementors didn't seem to affect him as much. Perhaps that would allow him to escape them, somehow get outside, and then swim to safety. They both had a good laugh at that one. Still, it was Sirius, a master prankster after all, who came up with the way out, in the end.

Only Staff, official visitors, those whose sentences were up, and the Dead left Azkaban. Since Sirius had no official sentence to expire, he would have to die. Lupin got right on it.

Lupin interviewed the guards for his book; after all, to wrap things up he would have to have a chapter on 'The Azkaban Years', and he got full details on how his ex-friend's body would be disposed of. Fairly informally, actually. After a cursory test (breath on a mirror, stick 'em with a pin) his papers would be marked, and the body taken to a cliff with a sheer drop-off and… dropped off. No point in expending the effort of digging honorable graves for scum like their prisoners. Let the sharks get them, and good riddance!

Lupin wrote up his biographical notes as the most annoying and poorly constructed purple-prose piece of trash that he could. On a third bottle of Blishen's Firewhiskey-inspired trip about the island taking photos to show how invulnerable it was he tipped over the side of the boat a small, heavy package. The guards giving him the ride (Azkaban being such boring and depressing duty that any chance for amusement was taken up) were too busy to notice. They were alternately tipping the bottle back, giggling at the poor author's rotten style, and finding it hilarious how close they were coming to ramming into jagged rocks. Surveying the cliff, the waters below it, and the lines of observation from the prison Lupin could only think one thing: "this could work."

?

After that he made one more trip Azkaban, this time only a week later. At the end of the interview, as he was being led out by the guard, Lupin set aside his usual calm manner, and yelled at Black, throwing a thin, old Knut at him while yelling: "I've got all I need out of you! Here's payment, if your Dark Lord forgot to give you a final coin for betrayal!" At that Black began to cry and beg: "No, Remus, I thought that you understood. Don't you leave me here alone forever, too!"

As the pair left down the corridor Black reached into his robes and finished off the roast beef with onion and horseradish sandwich Lupin had left him, along with his other necessities. After a little searching he found the coin, and punched out the weakened center. He put a thread through it and tied it to his index finger. Then he began his health regimen for the next twelve days; eating all the strength building concentrates that Lupin had prepared, and exercising whenever there wasn't a guard nearby. When there was one, Black just huddled in a dark corner and moaned, like a sensitive person who was… in Azkaban.

On the day with the proper tide, when the faint changes of light that had snuck their way down into the corridor outside said it was just turning to night, Sirius Black neatly taped the carefully prepared non-slide surface of a potion bottle to his skin below the waist of his filthy trousers, and poured the contents of the other potion Remus had slipped him (this one with the smooth exterior, so he couldn't confuse the two even in the dark) into his mouth, and using a stone he had loosened some time ago, pounded the bottle to a dust that fell invisible to the dirt floor of the cell. His mouth becoming numb Sirius stumbled to his cot, and swallowed the adulterated Potion of Living Death. Instantly his consciousness faded, and he fell half on and half off the cot.

When his heart stopped and his brain stopped working, a light went off down at the control room of the prison: there was a change in the status of prisoner M 3145-Black, Sirius. A pair of men were broken out of the perpetual card game in the dormitory, and directed to go up to cell and deal with it. They took a burlap bag, trolley, and form ZZ-120: Notice of Death of a Prisoner. By tradition in this, if nothing else, the staff of the prison was prompt. Disposing of corpses quickly meant that whatever weird things had been done to the prisoner in life, at least the body would be disposed of before it turned into a pool of stinking slime. Cleaning _that_ sort of mess up was ten times the work, and the smell would sometimes linger for weeks.

The guards went through their checklist: Breath-mist on the mirror? No. Response to being pricked by a needle coated in pain-inducing toxins? No. Opinion of attending authorities? Dead at 8:23 PM. Then they gingerly slipped the cooling mass into the sack, taking care not to let their hands touch the filthy body more than they had to. As they put the sack onto the trolley, and wheeled it toward the nearest exit to the disposal area, a Dementor followed them for a while. There was definitely a soul still in the prisoner they were taking through the halls, but they _were_ proper guards; if anything was wrong at least it wasn't _its_ fault!

After few rocks were placed in the bag, its ties were knotted, and the mortal remains of Sirius Black, one of the most notorious of killers, dropped into the deep, surging waves on the west side of Azkaban Island. Except for a few words about the weather no one said anything. It was just another night on Azkaban.

?

As his body hit the water the effects of the purposefully modified Potion of Living Death was broken, and Sirius Black began to do his excellent imitation of a drowning man. Really, though, it wasn't an imitation. He reached desperately to where the potion of water breathing was taped at his waist, and managed to open and swallow as much of it as he could as he felt his body stop moving, as it hit rock bottom. Before it began to take effect he had a panicked moment when he thought Remus _had _been running a con on him, and was going to use the second draft for 20,000 Galleons as a down-payment on a house or something. Then, as he felt his lungs accepting water as a good thing to breathe, he felt insanely embarrassed. He would never admit what he had feared, of course, but from now on Remus had a blank cheque.

He found the coin tied to his hand, and used the sharp edge he had ground into it slice through the bag. When the rent was large enough he slipped through it, and swam to the surface. The _really _tricky part was coming up. After he hit the surface he changed himself into his Animagus form, and began to swim in as straight a line as he could to a line of sharp rocks that cut out above the waves. Whenever he was sure that his nose would be above the water he sniffed desperately for the scent he had familiarized himself with on Remus' last visit. Finally he caught it; coming from a patch of seaweed that wasn't moving, despite how the waves and currents were trying to shift it. The unmistakable scent of fresh horseradish.

While the wards and alarms of Azkaban were maintained so that the guards would know of any magic being done _on _the Island, or close-by, a spell expiring didn't have any signature, unless it was being monitored for in particular. The package Lupin had pushed off the boat had been dense (to sink quickly and stay put on the bottom) and a compressed mass of Things. One of them was seaweed, with attached time-release capsules of horseradish scent. Sirius, as the Grim, had a sense of smell about a hundred thousand times as good as a human; otherwise the plan would have been another no-hoper. Below that was a long cord down to what Lupin called "the Payload." Reaching the line hidden in the weed Sirius changed back to human, and started to dive down to retrieve the equipment still under water. The first thing he discovered was that his little doggy-jaunt had flushed the water breathing potion from his system. This would have to be done the hard way.

As he felt the cold water leaching away his strength, he filled his lungs as best he could, and began pulling himself down, head first, along the line. Barely reaching the bottom he fumbled around for a few seconds, until he found the toggle that separated the line and payload from their anchor, and released it. Swimming up again to the surface was as close to a pure drowning experience as anyone who didn't end up needing artificial respiration would ever know. Still, he kept contact with the line and its attachments.

He was following Lupin's instructions blindly now. He was too tired, too weakened by the cold to think. He could only make his body sluggishly follow the repeated little rhyme Lupin had made him memorize:

Pull it up and hold on tight

Swim to clear water in the night

Pull the tag and fill the raft

Then jump in and drink the draft

Steer away from Prison Isle

Quiet, with no laugh or smile

The easting current's the way to go

Don't shout out, or make a show

The tag made a largish raft inflate; inside of it some waterproof boxes held potions and sealed food. Everything was Muggle, no spells (just a few warming potions and the like), including the map that showed where he was, how the winds and currents were usually setting at this time of the year, and a sealed bag with Muggle clothes, money and a black-market wand.

By the time Sirius Black finally paddled ashore on the north-west coast of Jutland he had worked out all of the mistakes in the escape plan; twenty-three days at sea was long enough for that. Lupin had dyed the raft with low-observable colors, and they had worked like a Charm. Even in those busy waters none of the cargo ships or fishing vessels (no one but a fool would have been out pleasure boating in late winter) had either seen him, or at least they hadn't offered to give him a lift. However, the next time he escaped from Azkaban he was going to make sure that he had something with a lot more dry clothes on it, and something that didn't toss enough to make him seasick for twenty-three days straight. Also give Remus a course in basic rhyming.

He made his way, as fast as possible, to the Copenhagen branch of Gringotts and stopped his accounts from being "closed, due to death." It was a bit harder than he imagined. Once the account was closed that way it stopped collecting interest, but fees were still charged against it until it was either empty, or an heir came forward. He was well within the ninety-day period before notifications were let out, but with no identification on him it was a four-stage process (with assorted painful procedures and annoying fees at each one) to get his accounts back under his control. He had, of course, paid for the highest level of confidentiality in all this; one thing you could trust goblins about was if you bought their silence, they would keep their word; or at least give you fair warning. He also made a one Knut transfer into the accounts of Remus Lupin.

He wasn't too sure how well the Aurors or Ministry were monitoring his accounts, but decided to take few chances and wended his way, doing an imitation of Muggledom that slowly improved from Troll to merely Poor. Always he kept going south, he was getting as far from North Sea winter as he could. Finally, on a beach in Iskenderun, Turkey, he lay himself down on a beach towel and let the Mediterranean sun begin to bake some heat back into his bones. This far was far enough. He'd get a hotel room later that evening.

?

After his last visit to Azkaban Lupin threw himself into work, not even visiting Harry on the weekends. Partially it was that the jailbreak preparations had made him fall behind on his case-load, partially it was his lunar problem showing up on a weekend. He was sorely tempted to start using his Full-Moon tranquilizers every night, just to get to sleep. Then, when he was becoming certain that something had gone wrong and Sirius hadn't made it out of the sack, or had been run over by a lorry, or… his bank statement from Gringotts showed a one Knut deposit being made. A simple code, but one that should be tough to crack if he was being watched. Now he could go back to having what passed for a normal life.

On the day he went to tell Bev that it wasn't going to continue between them (there was nothing wrong with her, but he didn't want to be anywhere near the Dursleys at any time, lest something go strange and they managed to even think he had ever been near them in any form) she gave him the brush-off. While he had been running around in a tizzy, she had met a stockbroker who had swept her off of her feet; perhaps it should be left at that.

On the next time he met with Harry, taking him for a walk in the pale Spring morning, he began to cautiously bring up the topic of magic; magic as a real thing and not just in fairytales. The boy got a thoughtful look on his face, and finally blurted out: "Like this bully, and he trips over something that isn't really there, but you had wished really, really hard it was so he wouldn't come over to you and knock your sandwich into the dust, and when everybody looks there isn't anything there but he tripped anyway?"

At which point it was less Harry had finished what he had to say than that he had simply run out of breath. Lupin gave a serious nod and replied, "Could be."

Harry, having mostly recovered, began again: "Or there is this girl that's really, really pretty and you think it would be great if her hair was blowing in the wind, and there was this gust of wind but it was in the classroom, and the windows were closed?"

"How old are you, Harry Timmons?"

"Six, almost seven, Mr. Lupin."

"You have a clear and proper sense of values, and are a true son of your father."

Harry (Timmons or Potter) smiled. Mr. Lupin had shown him pictures of his parents, and told him a few stories about them. If he was like his father it must mean he would meet a wonderful and pretty woman and be happy with her. It made him feel closer to them. He was glad that Mr. and Mrs. Anderson had convinced him that girls didn't give you lurgy1. That meant he could have _twice_ as many friends as the boys that ran away from girls!

Lupin wished he could write about this little conversation to Sirius, or better yet talk to him. Harry was doing accidental magic, and liked girls. How much more like a young James could he be? Well, since the breeze hadn't been lifting the girl's skirt, there evidently _was _a good difference in their character. Still, James and Lilly would have been proud of Harry, who was turning out to be a very good and precocious Harry in his own way.

Lupin thought about this conversation over the next week, and when he visited the Andersons one day while Harry was at school, he tried to gently bring up the subject of the little strangeness's that might happen from time to time when Harry was in the house. He received a sever shock.

"Oh, you mean like 'The Tomorrow People'2 things that sometimes happen?" said Mrs. Anderson.

"They've given us a lot to think about, kept our old brains from getting rusty," Mr. Anderson added.

"Panes of glass that break when he's had a hard day, and fix themselves after he's been comforted? A roast that slides off the serving dish when being carried in for dinner, and falls _up_ onto a plate. With Harry trying to look like nothing's happened?" Mrs. Anderson smiled at Lupin. "He hasn't an ounce of harm in him, so we just play along that nothing is going on, to make him feel better. He never does anything bad on purpose, and for a child that's about as good as can be expected. Are you hiding him _for_ the government, or _from_ them?"

While Lupin sat in the chintz-covered chair and tried to recover his train of thought Mrs. Anderson went and got him a nice cup of tea. He sipped it for a few moments, with trembling hands.

"From _a_ government. Not exactly the British one. Not exactly any government you've ever heard about. He may not be in danger, but there are many who would use him, and not in his own interests. And his parents had enemies, some of whom are still out there with a grudge. I thought he'd be better under another name, and being looked after by some people who'd care for him decently."

Mr. Anderson asked, "He wasn't being well cared for?"

"You saw how he was dressed when he came here, how thin and sickly."

"If people want to use him, he must be important. If he's important, why wasn't he better treated?"

Lupin gave a sour chuckle and answered. "People with political agendas and long dark plots. Who never had children, but think they know how to mould them. Relatives forced to house him, who had hated his parents, and were taking that hate out on him. And the ones who would have replaced them would have been just as bad, or worse. When Harry gets home I'll give the suitable for ages eight and above version; he's mature for his age, but there's no reason to scare him out of his wits with the full story. Oh, by the by, it isn't Esper stuff, though that was a very good guess. We're talking about full bore and no foolin' Magic. If you have trouble with that, I have absolute sympathy for you."

The Andersons looked at each other for a moment; using that subtle telepathy certain married folk develop over the years. Mr. Anderson then went out to a bake shop to pick up something special, perhaps a Battenberg cake3. It looked like they would all need something a bit fortifying when Harry came back from school.

?

Author's Notes:

Called 'Cooties' in American childhood mythology.

A popular television program in Britain from the late '70s dealing with an emerging group of children with Psionic powers being pursued by government agents out to exploit them.

A popular type of cake in Britain with a marzipan frosting and internal designs.


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter Properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 4: Three Calendar Montage

By Larry Huss

Lupin sent a letter to the staff at Azkaban, complaining that no one would publish his biography of Sirius Black even after the bugger had died! He thanked them in a more appreciated way; by giving them a subscription to **Playwitch**. He had carefully flogged his manuscript around at all of the best Wizarding publishers he could think of. One had been keen to buy it as a fine example of a parody of popular biographies. Lupin had sweated bullets trying to convince the man that it was supposed to be a serious piece of work, and not the efforts of a previously unknown comedic genius. The werewolf made a note afterward to pay attention to that house's releases; alone of all the publishers they had seen his writing as a purple prose disaster. They evidently were a top-notch bunch.

Lupin hired first one, then a second, of his ex-coworkers from his days at the Agency. They knew his little peculiarities (or at least thought they did) and that made it easier to explain his unique results. One had skills in forensic accounting and the other managed to be good with electronics stuff (as long as Lupin wasn't doing some hidden magic nearby). A larger office and a full-time Office Manager were the next natural steps. While the firm of R. Lupin, Private Investigations, LLC might not be on the way to Pinkerton status, it was slowly building a reputation for reliable and ethical work. He worked toward specializing in commercial security investigation (stop that hand in the till!), skip-tracing (all his work on finding the truth about Sirius had given Lupin unmatched connections and skills in ferreting through records on both sides of the street), and catching the flow of monies to offshore accounts when marriages went bad. Certainly there were the spectacular cases of the Insurance Fraud or the 'who's sending me these awful letters' sort, but the bread-and-butter of P.I. work remained pretty mundane. Lupin did enjoy exposing several fake 'mediums'; it reminded him of pranking the Divination professors back at school.

?

Lupin had discovered that, next to walking a puppy, having a bright and cheerful child to play with in the park was one of the most powerful of all Babe Magnets. He tried to use this power for good.

At least twice a month Lupin took off a day to be with Harry. Cultural events like East End Theater, educational ones like the Zoo, and plain recreational ones like Adventure Island and Great Yarmouth Beach. This gave the Andersons a well deserved rest (keeping up with a kinetic child of six or seven was a bit more tiring than they had remembered) and a chance for mini-holidays of their own.

Harry was Harry Timmons, of course, and Lupin was usually Peter Gorman (a favorite alias). A nephew and uncle; cute, and to Lupin's surprise, sexy. But he tried to only use the power for good. Dates were good.

There were only two wriggling little flies in the ointment: he couldn't get in touch with Sirius until they were sure everything was safe (they'd agreed before the escape that they would hold off on that for at least two years), and the damn scar.

Normal Muggle healing wouldn't take care of it, and the basic magical healing that Lupin could work wouldn't either. He _was_ good enough to establish there was something odd, powerful, and evil in it. That led him into starting to read up on advanced Curse Removal and Warding. Really, that would have been Sirius' assignment if they had been in touch. Lupin remembered once getting into the library at Sirius' old home and goggling at the number of old and rare Dark Magic material there. Sirius undoubtedly had spent time there; at least half of the pranks he had masterminded at school had an advanced element that smacked of furtive childhood reading of things Young Wizards Were Not Meant to Know.

The worst, though, were the dolls. Small ones, large ones, all Harry Potter dolls with fairly lifelike features, black hair, green eyes, and an amazingly accurate scar on their forehead. They were sold in all the toy stores that catered to the Wizarding World. The ads for Harry Potter play sets were in the periodicals that were bought by Wizarding parents. Each year they were slightly matured; an artistic complication that most toy makers wouldn't have bothered with as long as the product was still selling well. It hadn't been hard to trace back to the source of the accurate image, and the continuing issue of the materials for the Harry Potter collectable market. Albus Percival etc. etc. Dumbledore.

Lupin had to accept that Dumbledore wasn't really playing some deep game here. He was playing either a very shallow one, or his deck was a few cards shy of a full suite. If enemies had taken Harry, the boy was dead and using the parents and children of Magical Britain as his scouts would never locate him. If Harry was with safe people the constantly age-adjusted figurines would only remind enemies of what he might look like, and so would be a danger. The only thing that made sense to Lupin was that Albus etc. etc. really didn't care if Harry was alive if he wasn't under a Headmaster's thumb. The Greater Good was always going to be simple for Dumbledore; whatever made sure that Albus Dumbledore was in control and in the public eye.

?

It was on July 31st; just as Harry was turning eight, that Lupin next saw Dumbledore. He and one of his agents were out on an all night stakeout at a furrier when he heard a soft 'pop' beside him. He twisted his head just long enough to make identification, and returned his gaze to the alley that the shop backed on. At least the wizard had put on the illusion of wearing Muggle clothing, and his beard was only a foot or so long in this guise.

"Well, Remus-"

"Quiet you fool, I'm on a job!"

"This is hardly the sort of manners we tried to teach you at Hogwarts," Dumbledore said as he placed his hand on the private eye's shoulder. A gasp followed as Lupin's hand flashed up and found the spot between the thumb and palm that allowed maximum control over a grappling hand, and twisted the Headmaster's hand off, and down to his side.

"Quiet." Lupin said it low, but with a lot of the Wolf in it. Dumbledore let himself become subdued.

Forty-five awkwardly quiet minutes followed, until the door to the shop opened and three men carrying bundles of mink coats squeezed themselves out of place and tried to hustle to the street where a van had been parked for the last few hours.

Lupin shot off at a run, and was up to the first man before the thief had realized that something was coming at him like it could see in the dark. As Bill Davies got himself up to speed from his hiding spot behind a dustbin, Lupin had already pulled the thief's hand up and handcuffed him to a pipe. One of the others managed to take in what was happening and tried to drop his haul and cut out. With Davies already moving fast it wasn't going to work, and a clean tackle took him out of the situation. The last culprit tried to escape back into the store. Lupin, forgetting how much strength he had when his blood was up, smashed him into the doorjamb with loud 'thud.' Then it was pulling some hands behind the back and applying more handcuffs. He had no doubts of how the situation behind him would be turning out; Bill Davies was something of a fitness fanatic, and not a man to trifle with.

It wasn't for another three hours that a seething Albus Dumbledore had his moment alone with his ex-student. Hours while Muggle police were contacted, shop owners were brought in to identify their goods and crooked employees, and all the formalities of an arrest were taken care of. Finally, it was in an all-night coffee shop, his back to the wall in a darkened corner, that Lupin gave Dumbledore his chance to speak.

"I'm surprised you're not celebrating Harry's eighth birthday Remus, certainly you shouldn't be working on an occasion like that."

"Harry? Oh… Potter, right. Sorry, that was the third night for this stakeout; I get a bit testy when I'm up that many nights. I thought you were handling all the birthday stuff? Is Harry having a coming-out party? You should have given me some notice; haven't been doing much special for the 31st, unless it's the full moon of course, for years."

"I'm disappointed that you've forgotten your friend's child so quickly. I once thought you four were inseparable."

"Not to be unpleasant, but I seem to remember it was you who warned me off from trying to get in touch with the kid. Do I look like the kind of wizard that would dare get on Albus Percival and so forth Dumbledore's bad side?" Lupin noticed that the older man was subtly shifting his seat, and angling how his head was tilted, trying to get it all 'just so.'

"It's true!" Lupin laughed. "You can read people's minds by looking into their eyes! We always thought it was just a tall tale when we were in school, but here you are, lining up your shot! I bet it makes giving detentions a breeze; you can always tell who threw the first spell.

"You have to remember that I do have an obligation to Client Confidentiality. I can't have you rummaging around and investigating my past cases, or present social life. I'll admit though, Headmaster, if you need an endorsement of post-school employment possibilities for students, I'll give you one. Hogwarts gave me a well rounded education that has proven of great utility in my career."

As a guarded mind, even one without special training, was far more difficult to explore Dumbledore tried a different track. It was refreshing, though, to hear Lupin's spontaneous endorsement of his years at Hogwarts.

"Actually, this _is_ about Harry; finding Harry in fact-"

"Really, Headmaster, I'm sure that wherever you have him stashed, nobody is going to find him. You don't need _me_ to check up on your work. I can't even tell if you've dressed for the occasion, transfigured your robes, or are just that good with illusions."

Dumbledore gave a sheepish grin, "Well, actually, we have… sort of… mislaid the child."

?

In the end, Dumbledore left disgruntled. Lupin had categorically refused to devote himself to work fulltime (and pro bono, at that!) for however long it would take to find the boy. It was fun telling Dumbledore that his advice of years ago, essentially put his past behind him and move on, had become Lupin's life motto. It hadn't stopped the elderly wizard from trying a 'that was then, this is now' argument, but Lupin countered it with his 'I'm responsible for so many other people's livelihood' return, with an added dose of 'with executive responsibility comes great obligation.' Lupin had rarely had such a fine ending to a long stakeout.

Still, it reminded him of the need to change Harry's appearance, especially that damned scar.

It seemed almost as if there was a living essence attached to it; connected to, and living off of, Harry's magic core. So… a sort of magical parasite. While there was no mention of some simple, or even direct, spell that would safely deal with such a thing, there were (in the Wizarding medical literature) some ideas for procedures to deal with such things. After all, while demonic possession _was_ rare, it was hardly unknown!

Lupin would have liked to spring for a professional to do the job; he still had twenty seven thousand Galleons of Sirius' money available for such things. But he really couldn't imagine any Healer in the world who wouldn't eventually have boasted about treating Harry Potter while on some drunken pub crawl, or to some squeeze that begged to be impressed. Even a Wizarding Oath couldn't stop people from doing things; it just made sure that they paid for it afterward. Lupin had to do it himself, the way he had learned Muggle law and hand-to-hand fighting; step by step, fact-by-fact, bruise-by-bruise.

Having an augmented healing rate allowed Lupin to use himself as a Harry Treatment Analog. Starting with simple first aid procedures, then with dealing with toxic potions, then toxic spells, then (after over a year during which he had pretty well given up his social life) dealing with various sorts of magical parasites. His employees hadn't known exactly what was wrong with The Boss, just that he seemed to be sickly a lot. It was worrisome; there weren't many in the business as good to work for as he was. The day he came in to the office with a big smile, and announced he was taking two weeks off, and gave each of them a good bonus in anticipation of their extra work to cover for him was actually a relief for the staff. The office gossip (which quickly spread throughout the entire building) was that he had been sick, but his name had finally come up to the top of the list at the hospital for whatever operation he needed. Close, but no magical panatela.

?

Over the years, as he had studied Harry's scar, the spell that inhabited it had always seemed more… responsive than most spells. It only made sense to treat it as if it was, in fact, alive in and of itself in some ways. Lupin regretted that. It meant he would have to go about things in a rather high-handed way, and risk Harry's good opinion of him. Still, needs must when the Devil drives, and while the ability to say something was 'good' or 'evil' was limited in many cases, whatever the nature of the spell in the scar it seemed it was constantly trying to cause Harry pain, and was trying to get more attached to his magical core. In the end it was that fact, more than merely protecting Harry's secret life, which decided Lupin to do whatever was needed.

So he bought the potions (Anxiety, Calming, and Healing), the glass tubing and warded bell jar, prepared the spells for communication, protection, and projecting menace, purchased the heavily enchanted protective bandages, the murtlap ointment, and got the rabbit. A bit of added thought led him to **Ludus Toys and Games. **Having arranged with the Anderson's for the needed time, and making sure that Harry had no inkling of what was going on, Lupin struck at midnight.

Using the key the Anderson's had given him long ago Lupin let himself in, placing a note explaining he had taken Harry off on his holiday a little earlier in the morning than planned on the table in the kitchen. Creeping upstairs he opened Harry's room and Stupefied the sleeping boy. Beside the bed was (as per his instructions) a pre-packed suitcase. Picking up both Lupin left the house, locking up after himself. He then put Harry and the case in the back of his auto, and drove off to the cottage he had rented in the Shropshire Hills.

Harry Timmons (he had been thinking of himself as this for so long that it was the name that he really felt was his own) woke up strapped to a chair in some smallish stone-built shed. Next to the chair was a stout table filled with more glassware and tubing than the chemistry set he had gotten for his birthday this year, and next to a big jar, lying on its side, a largish rabbit.

Remus suddenly appeared and forced his mouth open, pouring a mix of foul tasting potions down his throat. He looked as weird as he was acting.

"Frightened Harry? You should be frightened. You're getting so strong lately; the Ministry would start to take notice of you soon. Can't render you down for magical parts and ingredients after you catch their notice, can I? Lots of money to be made from the parts and essence of a nice, virgin, boy, wizard. You should be frightened Harry. You're special, that nice powerful spell that's been hanging around in your head all this time, did you think I wouldn't find a way to separate it out, distill it and use it for my own strength? I'll be the greatest of werewolves, and rip out old Fenris' throat when I have that properly broken!" Lupin began to write on Harry's face with a brush dipped in blue-black ink.

Harry felt himself sweating, his heart racing, and his breath coming in short pants. His head began to feel like it was splitting open; he could feel blood trickling down his face, and he felt like he had to throw-up. Someone was screaming in his head: "Kill him, kill the beast, just point at him and use the spell! Weakling! I'll save myself!" Harry realized it wasn't just in his head, the sound was pouring into him from his ears also. Harry saw Lupin dip his finger in the trickling blood and write something on Harry's forehead. Suddenly, Harry felt something like a bandage being ripped painfully off of his forehead, and saw a sickly green cloud appear in his field of vision. It seemed to hesitate, moving slightly toward Lupin who began to grin so widely it seemed he was transforming right there and then. Suddenly the cloud darted off to the side, and seemed to be sucked into the rabbit. Lupin sprang toward the table; and as the possessor of the animal discovered that its' feet were tied he slammed the warded jar over it.

Lupin took a deep breath, the spell had been more conscious and perceptive than he had imagined. Looking over at Harry the detective began rummaging in the pockets of his robe for calming potions. The boy was bleeding heavily from where there was a jagged gash on his forehead. His face was pale with dilated eyes and flowing sweat; the perfect picture of a panic attack.

Even with his quickness and strength it was hard for Lupin to get the potions into Harry; until they started to take effect the boy was moving his head too much for his face to be cleaned up and the bandage coated with scarring prevention ointment to be properly applied. Finally, Harry began to catch his breath again, and proper color come back to him. As he calmed Lupin began to talk with him in a soothing voice, while casting a wandless spell of Suggestibility.

"That was the spell that kept your scar from healing properly, Harry. You saw how it tried to take control of you, make you do something bad. Well, now it's been scared out. You won't have to worry anymore about it. It was leeching off of your magical core; that's come to an end also. We had to catch it by surprise, but we've got it on the run now!"

Lupin watched the rabbit in the air-tight jar struggle for breath or escape. Long after it should have just stopped moving it kept on convulsing, until finally a green cloud left the body through the rabbit's mouth. It slowly drifted up to the top of the glass container and began to dissipate. In the end the air inside was just a little green tinted. Finally, that also disappeared.

Then Lupin untied the boy and carried him to his room in the cottage. Harry was exhausted and acted dazed; too many conflicting potions in him in too short a time-span. Putting a tracking spell on him (just in case) and telling him he would explain everything soon, Lupin put Harry on the bed, and went back to the shed.

Fortifying himself with every protective spell he could think of Lupin went back inside. He tried testing the insides of the bell jar, but the wards that had been put on it worked too well. Finally, with more fear than he had felt since taking the NEWT Potions exam he snatched up the top and cast a series of detection spells. There was nothing in the shed but himself, his gear, a very dead rabbit, and a smell of mixed decay and volcanic indigestion. Lupin took the rabbit outside and burned it thoroughly, burying the ashes and whatever else remained. Then he went back to the cottage, to discover Harry had done the wise thing and passed out completely.

?

Over the remainder of their holiday; between visits to the local town, walks, teaching Harry how to use the Youth Broom(1) he had bought him, swimming, and fishing Lupin explained what had actually been going on. He had been certain the curse in the scar was s_ort of_ alive, and was probably able to perceive at least some of what Harry could. Lupin had decided that the best shot he had to get it off of Harry had been to scare it off; an old and respected method even if it wasn't fashionable at the moment. If Harry hadn't been really scared the curse would have known, so Lupin had not only kept the truth from him, but used spells and potions to get him at full emotional overload. The equipment had been there to set the scene, except for the bell jar, which was to hold the curse until it could be taken care of. The rabbit, though… the rabbit was the price they had to pay. The curse might not have left if it couldn't have found a place to go to. Attacking a full grown werewolf-wizard was certainly going to be more difficult to do than taking over a harmless, timid, woodlands creature. In the rush the intelligent (much more than Lupin had expected; who would have imagined it could actually talk?) curse leaped before it looked, and ended up stuck in the bunny. Sadly, for the curse to be broken the rabbit had to die. Both Harry and Lupin felt badly about that.

Harry's forehead still had a scar, a light mark that was sort of crescent shaped. It could be covered over by either Wizarding or Muggle makeup (which Harry made a face about), or even just made pretty hard to see by wearing his hair the right way. Harry's hair usually seemed to have a mind of its own, but in this case seemed to want to be cooperative and let itself cover up the mark. Lupin promised to bring Harry to an optometrist when they got off holidays, both to get something less likely to be knocked off his face when playing sports and to change a little his eye color that resembled Lily's a bit too much.

It was the day before they were to take Harry back to the Andersons, who had taken a holiday out of the country with their long break, when Harry summed it all up:

"You couldn't get it to let go of me unless it wanted to, so you had to make it scared enough to want to cut and run. So you convinced me you were going to cut me up for spell stuff, and it thought that if it didn't get another place to live it was going to die too. So you had the rabbit ready, and once the curse was in it, you let it die, even though that was real mean of you. So the curse fell apart with nothing to hold it together. Without the curse my head finally healed right and I don't have that ugly scar anymore, so I don't have to worry about people knowing who I am if I don't want to. All clear on that one, Mr. Lupin.

"It's just when you were trying to scare me, Mr. Lupin, you said that parts of a boy wizard would be great magical ingredients. From the stuff you've taught me about magic I know that what you said was true, just nasty and illegal. But something confused me, and I asked Mrs. Dawson down at the village store, and she answered me. Said it meant being untouched. It's just… I mean… untouched? Untouched by what? Why is being a virgin such a big deal with magical bits and parts? What_ is_ a virgin? Sounds like _some_ people are using magical code words to me."

Lupin began to lightly sweat. Wasn't this a talk that Sirius was supposed to have with his Godson? That lucky bastard was off somewhere getting drunk and laid. Leave it to good old Remus to do all the hard stuff!

"Well, Harry, when a lucky young wizard meets… "

Author's Note

(1) - A Youth Broom. That's what Lupin got at **Ludus Toys and Games**. He figured after messing around with Harry some sort of a peace offering was going to be needed. As per Ministry of Magic Regulations, the Cleansweep Beta 3 Youth Broom is limited to speeds of no more than 25 KPH, can reach heights of no more than 15 meters, and has advanced safety features including Sticktight Spells. Use of a Youth Broom is not considered use of magic in regard to the Underage Use of Magic Regulations.

Voldemort's Horcrux creation attempt at Godric's Hollow did not go as planned. The normal protections that Voldemort placed on his Horcruxes were never placed, and as a result the soul fragment was more of a magical parasite than a permanently affixed spell. Under enough strain it managed to disassociate from Harry, and seek out an alternate host. The Riddle diary, creating its own host from Ginny's magic (in Canon) is the closest approximation. Other Horcruxes, depending on the particulars of their creation and conditions, will differ in this.


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own, or receive any, benefits from the Harry Potter properties

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 5: Muddling the Trail

By Larry Huss

It was August 15th of 1989, and Albus Dumbledore was relaxing after an important International Confederation of Wizards meeting that had been held in Toronto. He knew that two weeks on the beach at Fire Island was just the ticket to get all the kinks out, and let down his hair (metaphorically) outside of a Wizarding society that had such rigid views of acceptable behavior of a Supreme Mugwump. While he was away for the month of August his duties devolved upon his Deputy: Minerva McGonagall.

Professor McGonagall had that year, as she did each year, the important responsibility of alerting the families of Muggleborn wizards to what was going on with their children, and the immense advantages of a Hogwarts education. She was very good at her job, and it was rare indeed that a family refused their child the opportunity to enter the Wizarding community. This took a great deal of time, especially toward the end of the summer when she had to make frequent trips with her Muggleborn charges to Diagon Alley for their school preparations. By the rules of seniority in effect when the normal chain of command was exhausted, the job of managing Hogwarts went to the senior serving staff member. Ordinarily this required very little in decision making, as the place practically ran itself in many ways. The senior serving staff member in 1989 was Cuthbert Binns, one of the least lively of the staff due to not only his age, but being dead.

Accordingly, it was not to be wondered that it was on August 16th, 1989 that Remus Lupin made an unrecorded visit to his alma mater with intent to commit various acts of forgery and erasure.

?

Contrary to popular rumor, Argus Filch was not the only non-magical worker at Hogwarts, especially during the summer period of maintenance. Various other squibs were hired to do odd jobs that were below the dignity of wizards to bother with, unless they were annoying right at the moment. Another nondescript fellow in work clothes (much like Muggle dress, it fact) aroused no particular attention. If he kept out of the way of the others, and was always seen carrying various unpleasant-smelling cleaning and repair substances in open containers few people offered to assist him. That he seemed to drift up to the office where the large parchment Book of Names was kept appeared to be just happenstance. The Book of Names listed all the wizards and witches born in each year, the book that was used to direct the Hogwarts Letters inviting attendance at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

It hadn't been hard for Lupin to find out that during this part of the summer Hogwarts would be running primarily on inertia. He knew McGonagall would be overwhelmed by work, and the newspapers had mentioned Dumbledore going for a short vacation after the Toronto meeting.

Now he just had to be very careful and leave no obvious traces. He knew that if a first rate wizard investigated what he was going to do, they would discover it. As long as they had no reason to look they wouldn't investigate, so appearances were everything, like in politics. If they did check up, at least Lupin could make sure that there would be nothing pointing directly back at _him. _

Locking the door behind him, Lupin went to the Book and carefully opened it to the year 1979. As the famed Hogwarts Quill entered each magic user's name as they were born the book was initially filled up with a list in birth order. For convenience in checking up (a rare thing, but known) the Book had a self re-ordering ability. Carefully taking the Quill, currently passive as no one was being born in 1979 at the moment, Lupin carefully wrote (in his best forging penmanship) the name Harry Timmons and the date of June 8th. As soon as the ink had dried the Book re-sorted the names for the year and tucked Harry Timmons between Ethelrede Stammist and Violetta Turgen. Step One done.

Hearing a humming, Lupin looked up and saw the Quill float over to the Book, and the pages flip themselves until the current year came up, and then write in a name and date. Still humming the quill went back to its holder and sort of snuggled itself in.

Lupin went back to the Book and turned the pages until the year 1980 came up. There, in viridian green ink was the name Harry James Potter, and the date: July 31st. This was going to be a bit touchier. The Owl Post got its positive identification of names for all British Wizards from the Book, the information transferred... magically. Lupin carefully added, in spelled invisible ink, a few stroke marks to the third and fourth letters of Harry's listing in the Book. He carefully erased parts of the cross bars of the 't's of Potter, then replaced them with similar colored, but differently magical ink that had a Condundous Charm mixed in. When the envelopes of the letters for Harry's year were going to be marked the visible result should be the appearance of something addressed to Harry James Potter. To casual sight at least. The magic that generated addresses would be reading, or at least trying to read, Harry James Poffer. Lupin's hope was that the envelope would just mark itself "Address Unknown" and the owl carrying it would drop it off at Unknown Locations Office. Since the latest round of layoffs for budgetary reasons (1923) had eliminated funding for anyone to actually sort through the material brought there it was going to be a drop of water in the ocean operation to find it again.

At least that was the plan Lupin was working with. It relied on him being cleverer than the System, so it had a hope. There was also the chance that if Harry was already at Hogwarts the Book wouldn't bother sending his information on to the Post in the first place. That had been the motivation for having Harry Timmons being older than Harry Potter in the first place. In the end the signatures on Hogwarts letters were not actually written by hand after all, they were form letters that were generated automatically.

For that matter, surely Dumbledore had tried using the Post to try to get a letter to Harry by now anyway, hadn't he? Just having the official papers on file that a certain person was Harry Timmons might make him Harry Timmons. Lupin knew that Gringotts had different standards and different methods of identification, but since when did a wizard actually listen to a _goblin_? Harry was safe from that direction, at least until he declared himself to them.

?

The entry of Cesar Romanescu to Wizarding Britain on September 15th of 1989 was perfectly ordinary. A quick transit from the International Floo Hub in Paris to the Ministry of Magic Building in London, where a cursory examination and stamping of his papers left him free to enjoy his time in the soggy isle for as long as he cared to. Wizarding Britain was either very free, or very lax, like that (one could take their pick). Mr. Romanescu was thirty years old, grey eyed, tall and had sun bleached light brown hair, cut short. He was very proud of his English tutor, who had taught him Standard English with barely a trace of an accent. It was obvious from the shape of his nose, and his earlobes, that despite any superficial resemblance he could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be Sirius Black. He had paid a pretty Swiss Franc for that to a discrete surgeon.

Not being Sirius Black, no one took any notice when Mr. Romanescu, a week after arrival, consulted with the firm of R. Lupin, Private Investigations. Evidently Mr. Lupin, having taken personal charge of whatever investigation was proposed, fully satisfied Mr. Romanescu. They seemed to hit things off so well that two weeks later the two men would have been seen closing down the bars in a trendy part of Muggle London, if anyone had been watching. Evidently Mr. Romanescu, being Romanian, found werewolves less disturbing than proper Englishwizards.

The next day, fully rejuvenated, Lupin was accompanied by his new friend when he went to take Harry Timmons out for one of their regular weekend outings. After cheering the boy on at a youth league game of football (a 3-2 loss, but well played by all), they picked up some portable food and drinks and sat around a picnic table in a park and let Harry meet his godfather.

Harry had been let in on the story of Sirius' imprisonment; calling it a frame job was an insult to frames. He was nervous meeting his godfather, of course, but Harry was a smart and confident boy and able to take such things in stride. He had enough great secrets of his own (as far as he knew, none of even his closest friends got to ride brooms on Summer Holiday) to give him an appreciation for the need for discretion. He had no trouble filing and addressing the person Lupin brought to see him as "Cesar" while still knowing who he really was.

Sirius was pleasantly impressed by Harry. He certainly wasn't James, but in certain ways he was James-like. While cheeky and active he was also a more pleasant person than James had been at that age(1); by now Sirius had come to accept that both he and James had been a bit brattish and something close to bullies when they were young. Harry was a lot more friendly; as they sat and ate a half dozen children and parents going through the park came over to say hello to the schoolmate, teammate, and young gardening expert Harry Timmons.

Over the next year Mr. Romanescu became a regular part of Harry's life. He tried to make sure to have some free time on most holidays and weekends to give Harry a day (or week) out and good advice and support. For instance: what do you do if a girl kisses you? Or: if you know that someone stole someone else's flute at school, but can't prove it without saying you can use magic, how do you handle the case? There was also: Mr. Dumbledore can look you in the eye and read your mind, how can I keep him from finding me out? Sirius found the first situation easy, but he had to refer the second one to Remus. The third question meant a series of trips to 12 Grimmauld Place (with a command of silence placed on the mad house-elf that lived there) to go through the library there for books on Mental Magic that all three of the wizards began to study. Remus, of course, still came over as often as possible, but as a working man with irregular hours (and a lunar problem) it was hard for him to be there as regularly.

This isn't to say that Mr. Romanescu didn't manage to creep into visibility in the social scene. The June 8th, 1990 issue of **Witch Weekly**, listed him at number nineteen of the twenty most eligible bachelors in Britain. Luckily he was wearing sunglasses and a beret at the time of the picture.

?

By coincidence that was the very day that Harry Timmons, Muggleborn wizard, received his Hogwarts letter of application. At his elders' advice he let it sit unanswered for three days, and then sent it back with a short note requesting some clarifications, written on a dot matrix printer.

Minerva McGonagall wasn't at all unhappy at that. Any note was a good sign that the sender was seriously considering attending, and since the level of handwriting teaching had sunk greatly in the last few decades the clarity of a mechanical response was far easier on the eyes. She had tried to get Albus to agree to allow typewritten assignments to be turned in, but to no avail. Sometimes that man seemed so stuck in the 18th century!

Visiting young Mr. Timmons was slightly disturbing but not unpleasant for the Deputy Headmistress at first. His guardians were elderly, but not at all shaken by fact that the child they had raised for so many years was magical. A thoroughly good type of Muggle, she thought. The boy himself was eager, but polite; he had prepared a written list with a dozen or so questions. They asked things like who ran Wizarding Britain, would he have trouble fitting in as a Muggleborn, how much did it cost to go there? She had no trouble answering them, though she felt a little uneasy at painting such a rosy image of the Wizarding world. As how he would pay for it; well, there were scholarships if he proved poor enough but still talented.

It really wasn't the Andersons' fault. The professor had been getting along so well with Harry, that when she asked to see his room, where he kept his PC, it seemed the merest politeness to comply. Complicated electronics tended to work erratically in a high Thaum(2) environment, and she didn't get many chances to see them operating at their best. She also had a more personal reason for wanting to see the room. She felt that seeing how a person lived in their personal space, and what they had in their library (if any), gave a specially good view into their character.

The room was clean; only a few pieces of clothing were hooked over pieces of furniture, and the bed could (if you were charitable) be considered made. For an eleven year old, not a disaster by any means. The bookshelves held an old encyclopedia, a dictionary, and a wide assortment of Young Adult fantasy, adventure, and science fiction books. It was what was on top of the book case, on the desk next to the computer, and on top of the dresser that gave her a start. Photographs. Photographs of Timmons with his sports teams, photographs of Timmons with the Andersons around the house, and photographs of Harry Timmons with Remus Lupin. Little Harry Timmons being carried on Remus' shoulders, or standing at his side, at amusement parks, zoos, and a dozen other places.

Now it all fit! Why Remus had blown off Albus years ago, saying he was getting on with his life. Why the boy wasn't living with relatives, believing he was an orphan(3). Harry Timmons was Remus Lupin's illegitimate child!

He had had an affair with some girl, probably a Witch. She had gotten pregnant, refused to marry him due to his… affliction. She had the child in secret, and either abandoned it, or left the baby on the father's doorstep. Unable as a single parent, especially one just starting out in life, to raise boy himself Remus had found family friends to board the child with. When he could finally handle the situation he held off, not wanting to disrupt the child's life with the people who had been raising him since infanthood. She remembered (vaguely) talking with dear Lily Potter so many years ago, and hearing that Remus seemed different somehow, and wasn't visiting nearly as often as he used to. Of course not! He wasn't acting like a student with rich friends anymore, he was acting like a young father desperate to provide for his loved one.

Minerva McGonagall pretended not to notice who was in the photos, avoiding looking at them too intently. She merely admired the computer setup the boy had for a short time. She made a silent vow to never reveal Harry Timmons' secret until he would be willing to do so himself. Being a werewolf's child could wreck the boy's social life at Hogwarts making him the target of many cruel remarks and pranks. Being illegitimate wouldn't help either. So, as soon as was polite she made her excuses and arranged for a Diagon Alley shopping trip, with a more final determination about monies to be made later.

Later that evening, back at Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall kicked off her shoes, sat in her Comfy Chair, and sipped some single malt. She began to lay in the Occlumency barriers to protect her new secret. Not even Albus must know. Or if Severus were to find out the boy's life wouldn't be worth living, considering how the Potions Master regarded the father. It was frustrating to have such a delicious tidbit and not be able to share it with Pomona or Poppy. But Minerva knew the Law of Secrets(4) and wasn't going to put a child at risk if she could help it!

Author's Notes:

1-In the small world of upper-crust Wizarding families only the most eccentric families, and their children, didn't end up meeting each other from time to time. Sirius and James had met at least a half-dozen times prior to seeing each other at the sorting at Hogwarts.

2-A basic measure of Magical energy. First standardized at the Unseen University in Ankh-Morpork.

3-Witches and Wizards do not take baby steps when forming conjectures, they take bold leaps!

4-Three can keep a secret, if two are dead.


	6. Chapter 6

I do not own, or receive any profit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 6: Residency Roulette

By Larry Huss

That Harry Timmons had a cashiers cheque for over £20,000 in pocket wasn't surprising to Minerva McGonagall on the day she picked him up to shop at Diagon Alley. Over 3,800 Galleons; evidently Remus had been doing well over the years, or at least was practicing frugality in anticipation of his son's school costs. Minerva had always remembered him as the "sensible" one of the boys. It was more than enough to pay for the year's tuition, and all the needed supplies. Harry, of course, just said it was "family money" and left it at that. To the goblins who exchanged the Muggle cheque for a small vault, transferred the tuition to the Hogwarts account, and gave them enough for the day's needs, it didn't matter. The motto of Gringotts, "Geld nicht Gestank,"(1) was more than a few words to them; it was a creed.

As opposed to most children raised in the Muggle world, Harry took the Alley in cheerful stride. He didn't give away a familiarity with magic by any words or actions so much as by his complete and easy acceptance of everything he saw. What pleased Minerva most was how eager he was to see all the other children getting kitted up for the coming year. She was sure that he was going be one of her Lions, eager to rush out and meet new experiences!

Like most of the Muggle-raised, he had a few awkward moments getting fitted for robes (they left a bit extra on his for future growth), and there _was_ Ollivander's odd behavior. After a large number of false starts the wandmaker had simply told the boy to reach out from his magical core, and mentally 'grab' the one that felt best. After that it was ten seconds before a wand came flying out from a back room of the shop and smacked into Harry's hand. Ollivander's face was grimacing as he gave its specifications: "Rowan stock, Simurgh quill core, 12 inches, unyielding(2). Twenty Galleons please. I give you no guarantees on this one; it's a Gregorovitch I was doing some research on. Alright, for Continental work, I suppose. But still, _not an Ollivander's!_"

That was the first time, in Minerva's experience, that someone had left Ollivanders without having an Ollivander-made wand in hand. It was positively exciting, and would be suitable for a tidbit at her next cocktail hour with the girls.

Aside for that adventure things were very normal indeed: Harry had covertly fingered his wand every chance he got during the rest of the shopping trip. He tried to be covertly cool in eying each child he saw going by with their parents; would they be his new classmates? The pickup arrangements with the Andersons went perfectly, and Minerva McGonagall knew that she had started another young wizard on the path to their future fulfillment. When she used Apparition to get back to Hogsmeade she put Mr. Timmons out of her mind until the sorting in September. She had no idea that after returning to their home the Andersons, Harry, Lupin and Romanesque went to the upscale _Frog and Peach Inn_and had a full (but sober) blow-out.

?

Well-briefed, Harry Timmons had no trouble leaving the Andersons at King's Cross Station, and going through the barrier at Platform 9 3/4. To the Andersons, it looked like he just sank into the thick brick and tile pillar, waving a cheerful goodbye. To Harry, it was like walking through a thin bank of very thick fog, into a kaleidoscope of brightly (and to his eyes, eccentrically) clad parents and children. Some were running around and shouting out to school friends they hadn't seen for months, some moping along, and a fair number of little ones looking panicked and clinging to their parent's hands as they were led to the train. Actually, Harry was one of the smaller ones, but he was self-confident to an extent few others were. In his youth league team he was a centre midfielder of note: according to Mr. Lupin and Mr. Romanescu he was a broom rider of immense potential, and he was already the survivor of a nasty curse. Harry was certain he could handle anything, and he was a certainly eager to try.

The trip up to the school was dull enough that Harry dug out NovoParaceleus's **Table of Potion Interactions and Disasters** rather than try to join in on the fake confidence and bravado of his First Year train compartment companions. He wasn't going to hold it against them; he understood how it could be a bit scary, especially for the Muggleborn now being thrown in at the deep end. The trip from Hogsmeade Station to the school itself beat anything (except the EuroDisney's Big Thunder Mountain) he'd ever seen, and the quick inspection the Giant Squid gave his boat on the trip in was marvelous!

It was the Sorting Hat that gave him (as it did many, once they learned troll-wrestling wasn't on their agenda) some trepidation. Where would it place him and what would it say once he had it on? He didn't have anything he was particularly ashamed of, but he did have a whopping big secret that he'd prefer to have kept quiet about. Both Mr. Lupin and Mr. Romanescu had tried to give him advice, but their experience was long ago and poorly remembered. "Don't let it push you around," was balanced with "Try to reason with it if you don't like where it seems to be placing you." Of course Mr. Romanescu had included, "Anything but Slytherin!" as his final advice. The Hat itself had some other thoughts on the matter.

After hours of waiting… with over a hundred students to sort these things take time… Harry made his way up to the stool with the Hat on it. Putting it on, he heard a mellow voice in his mind:

"It's been three generations since I've seen a cunning little bugger like you! You'd own the House in three years if you became a Snake; put them through their paces too. They've been needing a bit of hard discipline."

"Well, Mr. Hat, I've got nothing against snakes, they had an interesting view of life, when I used to speak to them; but it sounds like I'd have to be more than a leader, I'd have to be a bossy Boss, and that's no fun. I want to be able to sleep at night without wondering about a knife through my back, in fact, and you know… symbolically. So if I'd be good somewhere else, please consider it, I'm sure I'd be happier where people would be wanting to work _with_ me, rather than afraid not to."

"My job isn't to make you happy Mr. Timmons… since you want to be known as that… it's to put you where you'll flourish. So…

"Huffflepuff!" rang out in the Great Hall. Harry Timmons took off the Hat, and carefully placed it back onto the stool. As he went to the proper set of tables the last to be sorted for the year crept up to find out her fate. Minerva McGonagall was disappointed that the boy wouldn't be in her House; he seemed to have all the confidence and energy that shouted out 'Gryffindor' to the world. Still, even if he wasn't one of hers, she would look out for him, and keep his secrets. Somehow, she felt he would be one to keep track of during his years in school.

?

"So, how do we find Peter, and can a man live after all his skin is peeled off and he's been rolled in salt?"

"Of course he can, he just never gets a good tan ever again. And we don't know that Peter is currently alive; if we find his corpse it would be nearly useless to us unless a date of death a year or two after your jailing can be proved," Lupin replied to Romanescu's questions.

Cesar shot back, "We could raise his spirit; try at least. If nothing comes, either Hell has a strict furlough policy or he's alive. If we get a spook, at least we know."

"Can I recite to you the seven separate statutes that we'd have to violate to do that, for inconclusive evidence? A simple mathematical formula will tell us the amount of time we'd have to spend behind bars if we're caught."

"So, we're back to the first thing, finding little Peterkins alive and kicking," Cesar Romanescu finished.

"No records, Wizarding or Muggle, for _our_ Peter Pettigrew since the Day. I've checked, including spelling variations and acrostics. Assuming he's alive, aside from the fun of torturing him, it would ease your legal situation some. The only really useful way of looking at things for us is that he's gone into deep cover."

"You're making him too noble, foxy almost. Not _to_ cover, more like a rat down his hole."

Lupin became contemplative. Like a rat down his hole. Literally, Peter had done that on more than one occasion, his value as a spy on their pranking expeditions had been essential before they'd made the Map, and often useful afterwards also. A Rat down his hole; and pull it in after himself? No, that was being a bit melodramatic. Perhaps… just never leave it. Ratty Peter didn't have to hide his features, if everyone was looking for a fattish, balding young man. Not if he was a portly, thinly furred rodent, perhaps (no, certainly!) with a digit missing. Living in the sewers, or even the fields of Britain? Too dangerous for little Peter; too many hawks and cats and poison-tainted meat-baits around. A household pet? Perhaps; certainly worth adding to the list of possible approaches, near the top in fact. Being fed regularly, a chance to snoop around and peek in at females in undress, and having his belly rubbed; certainly a fate Peter could handle.

If Peter was dead they were wasting their time. If Peter was somewhere else in the world (he'd been poor at languages, and language-learning spells at school, though) they'd never catch up with him. Their only reasonable course of action was to assume that he was alive, and in Britain. If Peter was in Britain he'd be in some form of disguise, so a method of discovering him either as a man or rat would have to be developed. That would be a task for Cesar Romanescu, a noted dabbler in the Grayish Arts, seemingly possessed of a useful bankroll, and much free time.

?

While Cesar Romanescu cut down on his social calendar (much easier to do now that Harry was at school), Lupin devoted himself to business. He was getting a more few cases from the magical side of the street; things that the underfunded Aurors couldn't devote staff to, or were being shooed away from for political reasons. The better ones ( Moody, Shacklebolt) would give him a tip about who to contact for the commission, or where there might be a reward if something undeniable was brought in to the proper authorities. Lupin wasn't surprised at how many times the proper authorities were still unable to move on open and shut cases. How many Wizarding families were willing to pay him for either closure or a clear idea of who to get vengeance on was rewarding. He was becoming, if not respectable, at least semi-notorious. In most cases he still had to come in through the Servant's Entrance, though.

They called if they really needed him, even if he was a Dark Creature. In fact, some of them preferred him that way. If he hadn't gotten up a reputation, and worked the hard-bitten (in several ways) private eye mystique (thank you Sam Spade!) he'd have never gotten Lucius Malfoy's commission to stop the thefts from his gardens. Considering what was growing in them, and the inabilities of the Malfoys' only staff (House-Elves, for Merlin's sake!), the only way the theft of the precious… and questionable… materials could have ever been stopped had been to call in a professional, and the Aurors the Malfoys could trust weren't exactly the pointiest wands in the rack.

It was interesting to observe the Noble House of Malfoy. Lupin had noticed them as Slytherin upper classmates at school; pointed out by Sirius as everything he was trying to _not_ become. Lucius was maturing well, looking more and more an artist's interpretation of a human-like_ thing_ as the years passed on. Narcissa (née Black) was actually looking older than her years, and becoming somewhat haggard. A shame; she had been the object of more than a few adolescent fantasies back then. Their sprog was a little bundle of arrogance, insecurity, bluster, and secret timidity; all with Lucius' looks. To think, if Harry had gone to school in his normal year he'd have had little Draco for a playmate! All-in-all they were not that great an advertisement for the superiority of the gracious upper-class. With only one child, it seemed they were letting down the cause of keeping Pure Bloods as the major part of British Wizardry, as well.

He'd wrapped up that case when he'd realized that the most likely reasons the long-nosed elves couldn't get the scent of the thieves from the soil around the garden was that they'd never set foot there. Which meant they'd hovered in mid-air while pilfering the stuff. The quantities taken, and the lack of a magical imprint from a lightening or shrinking spell (and the fact that too much alteration of form would often harm the magical properties of fresh potions ingredients) meant a bulk carrier was being used. That meant either the Persian embassy (which had diplomatic permission to use magic carpets), or someone at the Ministry or a suitable museum was the culprit. Then it was just a process of elimination (3).

Doing more work on the magical side meant both that he had less time for the Muggle investigations, and that he had a good bit more cash. This led to another expansion of the business, with the hiring of an ex-cop (not too burned out, hopefully) and an eager young semi-intern. The semi-intern was his first female agent hire, and had seen too many detective shows. Teaming her with Bill Davies seemed about right. He wasn't going to harass her (too much), and was thoroughly married. Lupin had become the "Old Man"; no one wanted to call another human being "Remus," that just sounded silly. The fact that he was younger than everyone else there except new-hire Marcia didn't seem to matter; he accepted it philosophically. He'd been called worse things, after all.

R. Lupin, Private Investigations, LLC, had slowly built up a reputation for doing the odd, or incredible, with utmost efficiency and discretion. The day Lupin realized that he had just faked the bloody murder of a young woman, on a commission of her father, was an eye opener on how far he had gone. For social reasons (in his local community), the father had to be known as the man who killed her. For legal reasons there couldn't be enough positive evidence left for an indictment to be brought. As the man _wasn't_ going to harm his child, there was left only one course of action; call in the talented Mr. Lupin. How he did it… not only did no one ever figure out, but no official agency ever knew he had been involved. What counted was the girl was safe, the father accounted a man of honour, and Scotland Yard had another folder of paperwork and investigation that went into the room where they kept what they were starting to call their 'X-Files'(4).

?

Marcia McCartny did _not_ have a crush on the Old Man. He was too old, too mild, too quiet, too much her boss for her to do such a thing. He reminded her more of one of her professors from University than anything else, and she certainly hadn't had a crush on that creep Dylan who taught Middle English Literature (bloody stalker!).

When she discovered that he was only thirty, she had only felt a certain distant sympathy for the hard life he must have lived to have that worn look. Like quality leather that had broken in perfectly and would last forever.

When she heard from Bill Davies that Mr. Lupin was the most dangerous man on the staff when the chips were down, she had been surprised at first. Later, she realized that he was always so polite and quiet voiced because wherever he was, he was the Big Dog, and had no need to make a scene to get attention.

When she became curious, after noticing that he was the only one of the staff (even that pig Evans) who never talked about his private life, she had turned on her considerable charm in order to get a little personal background on her boss. After all, her specialty on the staff was that she could get _anyone_ to talk to her, no matter how crusty or guilty. All she got out of him was that he was an only child. Researching records didn't do much more. She had tried to get somewhere by flirting with his friend, the exciting Mr. Romanescu. When she realized that she was _this close_ to becoming the man's third bed-mate of the week she had beat a quick retreat. Though not without a good deal of regret and wistful speculation.

The only reason the Old Man was so quiet about himself must be that he had a tragic, dramatic, romantic, beautiful past and… oh my God! She _did_ have a crush on him!

?

Severus Snape didn't know what to make of Harry Timmons. In the joint Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw Introduction to Potions class the boy was consistently the only one that he dared turn his back on. Timmons' end product might not always be the class best (though it was usually there, or close to), but he never blew up his cauldron or put his neighbors' lives at risk. No matter how much pressure Snape put on the boy, he never cracked, never flared up. The child was cold as ice; why was he a 'Puff?

Pomona Sprout thought the boy was a good addition to her House. He wasn't pushy, but people tended to cluster around him, following his lead. The only trouble with that was that his sense of humor, while not dangerous, was a little… childish. He had a good knowledge of Muggle gardening too, which helped with his coursework.

Minerva McGonagall found Harry everything she had thought he would be; a quick study with plenty of magical energy, as well as the other sort. He was helpful with those who were slower, but sometimes he couldn't help pulling a little prank in class. Sometimes he was good enough that she couldn't catch him at it, a high compliment from one who had taught the Marauders. What puzzled her was… why was he a 'Puff?

Professor Binns never noticed anything odd about Harry Timmons, but then again, what else was new?

Each of his teachers in the academic core (except for Cuthbert Binns) found him diligent and competent, and slightly odd. Albus Dumbledore heard little about the boy, and was interested in him less. Harry Timmons was not the Harry he was looking for.

Among his Housemates there was no mystery about Harry Timmons; he talked often about the Andersons (it was assumed they were his care-taker grandparents) and was always (allowing for assignments) up for a game or secret exploration of the school grounds. Hufflepuff was the House with the highest percentage of Muggleborn (a secret and unspoken reason for the low opinion the House had from the others) so Harry was able to get up a game of football on more than one Sunday. After all, no Firsties, and few enough of the rest of the student body, ever got a chance to get up on a broom except for class, or the few on the Quidditch team. Occasionally even a Slytherin Half-Blood would sneak in for an afternoon's scrimmage.

Harry Timmons liked Hogwarts. The only thing keeping him from loving it was the fact that he couldn't see Remus and Cesar and the Andersons and his friends… his people… as much as he wanted to. Exploring the school at night was fun; finding his way to the Kitchens an unending supply of snacks, and pranking the stuffy, was still the greatest. Making the Potions Master confused was one of those pleasures that kept on giving.

He was making lots of friends, and he had been right that not being worried about girls meant that he could make twice as many friends as the more childish boys. Still, the tendency of Second, Third and even Fourth year girls to sit down with him to 'tutor' him was a little disconcerting, especially when he saw them putting on lipstick before coming over. He thought it was because he was the shortest boy in the House; girls liked small and cute things. They didn't know his family got late growth spurts (and that he was a year younger than the records showed); when he got tall they'd probably start 'tutoring' some other little guy. Uncle Cesar, undoubtedly, would have told him to enjoy it while he could. So he did.

?

Lupin had noticed that Ms. McCartny was shadowing him some time ago. Whether he had caught her on her first attempt he couldn't be sure, but she was developing better skills so he didn't haul her over the coals. Cesar thought it was hilarious, of course. He called her "The Iron Virgin" since he hadn't managed to bag her.

Lupin did his best not to let his frequent and distant companion inhibit his social life. The first day after the night he had met a drunken lady solicitor wanting to cheat on her frequently adulterous husband had been a bit awkward at the office for McCartny. She was trying to be mature, worldly, and deeply interested in the case briefing she was getting; all the while feeling outraged (presumably by his lascivious behavior the night before), embarrassed (she knew it was none of her business), and dog tired from lack of sleep. Lupin remembered when he had been that young.

When he had taken the gang out for an office Christmas party at a nearby pub, he made sure not to get anywhere near the hanging mistletoe when she was around; he had been knocking a few back himself, and it wasn't as if she was bad looking. Having kept everything pretty much under control while inside he wasn't prepared for the leap and lip-lock she surprised him with as he was unlocking his car to go home. After they finally broke contact, the look on her face showed she had also been more than a bit surprised at both the act, and how very well it had gone.

As he quietly, but firmly, told her of his opinion of in-house romance (or even worse, mere fooling around) she took a step backward and pointed out with a nod of her head the tenting of his trousers. In an irritable voice he acknowledged that she a far from uninteresting feminine person, but that his earlier statements still stood, and if she could not abide by the policy she would have to leave. He did say her references would not reflect the reason for her termination. Only sniffling a little, Marcia nodded, and turned down the street to hail a taxi to take her to her lonely bed.

After Harry had returned to school, and the holiday rush had subsided, Lupin allowed himself to think about his life:

Would he spend his remaining years of virility chasing (and hopefully catching) drunken, stacked, lady solicitors? Phyllidia had certainly made it seem a worthwhile activity; still, would he never get to give domestic tranquility and a family a try?

Why did he feel that Peter Pettigrew, Harry's curse, and the whole damn slaughter at Godrick's Hollow were somehow still an active and important part of his life. Beyond a certain person's vindication and another's punishment?

Why, when he heard the talking-around of the Dark Lord's name, did he still feel something still had to be done?

Why was he alive? Everyone knew that a werewolf in full transformation was a ravening killing beast (unless the recently-developed Wolfsbane Potion was used, or in his case tranquilizers and/or whiskey). Why then hadn't Fenrir Greyback killed him so many years ago, instead of just infecting him with the disease? Before his death, Lupin's father had told him it was in revenge for an argument he had had with the werewolf. Greyback was famous for trying to turn children; evidently _he_, at least, was able to control himself enough to injure, rather than kill. Could vital parts of the werewolf lore of Wizards be wrong?

Finally, he forced himself to acknowledge he was very angry at Marcia McCartny, and desired to discipline her strictly. He had no problem with that; it was that his honesty compelled him to admit that afterwards he would have then treated her like a certain occasionally drunken lady solicitor (except for making breakfast the next morning), which would have been a bit hypocritical after his speech of Christmas last. He hoped that events would resolve this dilemma; certainly he had no answer for it.

?

Harry Timmons' second semester at Hogwarts passed with even less incident than the first had. He was still being 'tutored,' and had to physically resist being set in a girl's lap on more than one occasion. But it was all in good fun, and he never treated it as anything but a joke.

The rumor of a curse on the DADA position came up again. The school's current Professor was leaving, and the grapevine had it that Quirinus Quirrell, the Muggle Studies Prof, was going to be getting the post, beating out Professor Snape. Harry thought the calm and self-assured Quirrell might be more useful in that position than in Muggle Studies; after all, as a Pure Blood he actually had no experience of the Muggle life-style!

When summer break came Harry was eager and willing. After another long holiday with Remus and Cesar in Shropshire, he spent most of the rest of it with the Andersons' eldest and his family as a part-time babysitter/gardener and full-time local pool denizen. He had learned how to hide his textbooks from Muggle eyes and did some studying; much neater was that Peter Anderson was a policeman, and taught Harry Muggle self-defense (including the important "If in doubt, run away!"part).

This year, CD (that's what they called Cedric Diggory) would be going for Seeker, and Harry would be trying out for Chaser. Being (maybe) on the same team as CD; that would be something to remember!

That September, Harry went through the platform barrier like an old campaigner and got his gear stowed in a compartment with another early arriving 'Puff, then went back out onto the platform to have a little fun. Finding a few obvious first-timers wandering around lost, and a few others obviously trying to separate themselves from their parents, he put on his most officious face (at his height he needed all the presence he could muster) and packed a bushy-haired girl, a blond pretty boy and his two bookends, a redhead, and a lost looking chubby boy in one compartment. Giving them strict orders not to leave, except for a rest room break till they got out at Hogsmeade Station, he left them staring at each other in bewilderment. Satisfied that he had reduced some of the crowding in the train corridors, he went back to his own compartment and settled in for the long trip up to Scotland. By the time the Prefects were called in to sort out a mess in a completely different compartment than his, filled with Firsties, Harry was taking a nap and only heard about the collision of egos from his little experimental seating arrangement after the sorting that evening.

Author's Notes:

1-"Gold Doesn't Stink"

2-Rowan is a traditional tree of protection from evil. Simurgh is a benign, almost angelic, magical creature in Persian lore. 12 is a mystic number familiar enough to need no introduction, and unyielding is clear enough. Good for charms, and dispellings.

3-Siena Granton, docent of the Gallery of Wizarding History, had a desire to live beyond her means.

4-The father was present somewhere else at the time the girl was apparently murdered, but with help from his family he _might_ have found a way to fake the time. There was her blood at the scene, and her body with horrific wounds. A Confounded Medical Officer pronounced her dead at the scene, while her family's religious objections prevented an autopsy when there were such obvious reasons for her death. By the time someone thought to try for one again a very thorough cremation had taken place. The girl's (more a young woman) new and false identity was ironclad, and she was intelligent and strong willed enough to keep in character. Seventeen-thousand thirty-eight pounds of pure profit in that one, the fee a little high to compensate that the case could never be publicized.


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.l. Part 7: No Hole Too Deep

By Larry Huss

Cesar admitted the limits of the Black family library in early October of that year. While the place contained a host of nasty (as well as even more neutral or even benign) spells, it was weak on the subject of spell creation or modification. It was obvious to him that they would have to create their own versions of locators, perhaps using some variation of the spells they had created to make the Marauder's Map. The problem with that solution was that it had required something from every corridor, closet and room in Hogwarts as a location "fix" point. Doing that for all of Wizarding Britain seemed a tall order. Back at school it had been a cooperative effort to spell the Map, and ironically Peter had contributed more than the others with gathering the various needed objects, in addition to his spell work. Now they had to go back to square one.

After days of debate and brainstorming (completely sober, to Cesar's dismay) the best they could come up with was a variation on Lupin's original confirmation spell using organic remnants. If they had a sample of Peter's ratty form, even a whisker, it would have been better, but all they had was a dried up finger. The limits of their materials meant they managed a pivoting pointer that could react to a magical photo of Peter at five feet. If they could have found another part of him they could have calibrated how much further it would react to a separated part of the whole Peter, but they couldn't find hide nor hair of their old friend. The best they could figure was that it _should be_ at least ten times as effective as the photo. Cesar did come up the workable idea that half, or a third of a finger would do just as well as the whole thing, leading to three detectors before they became worried that they might be making too much of a good thing. If only the study of Blood Magic hadn't been discouraged for the last few hundred years they just knew that they could have done better, but if wishes were fishes…

In another direction, things for Lupin had improved. McCartny wasn't following him after work anymore, and though there was a still a little strain there, things between them had stabilized. He did find his social life was a bit more inhibited, but not to the point of his low period after Pettigrew's betrayal. Even that changed when his (no longer heavily drinking) lady solicitor friend got her divorce and elevation to Queen's Counsel on the same day. An extended Parisian weekend led to an ongoing relationship that Cesar seemed genuinely jealous of. In the interests of annoying his best friend more, Lupin talked much of her wit, knowledge of Art and foreign languages, and only discreetly-implied things about her entirely healthy body and various appetites. It was refreshing, after all those celibate years at school, to have something going on that was noticeably better than Cesar's long string of one-night stands.

When the request to visit Longbottom Manor came he begged off a date with Phyllidia and went in his best robes. While the Malfoy's were richer, the Longbottom's were part of the traditional cream of British Wizarding society. Lady Augusta (and so her grandson, now at Hogwarts) lived in reduced circumstances not from lack of funds, but in perpetual mourning for Frank and Alice, victims of the Death Eater's last gasp in the War. Lupin found that his Floo reception point was in the main office of the manor, with Lady Augusta sitting behind a George II desk with a chair for him already in place beside it.

Her greeting was formal, but courteous, and when he had seated himself she handed him a letter and silently indicated that he read it. The handwriting was in good Copperplate script, on quality parchment. It was from her grandson, Neville, at Hogwarts. It described a rather amazing event: a troll had gotten into the castle of Hogwarts (so often declared the safest place in Britain) and attacked the students. When he looked up after finishing the calm prose, Lady Augusta said, "This kind of behavior cannot stand. Something must… _someone_ must, investigate what is going on at Hogwarts!"

?

After arriving at Hogwarts on the Thestral-drawn carriage, Harry sat at the Hufflepuff tables and snacked (with over a hundred thirty incoming students the sorting would take well over two hours) while he paid particular attention to where his experiment in early bonding through seating would end up. Slytherin, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Gryffindor. The 'Puff was the chubby boy from the train, Longbottom, evidently a family of some social cachet in the Wizarding world. When the Gryff was called the bushy-haired 'Claw gave a sigh of relief, Harry noted. He managed to get a seat next to a still visibly shaking Neville Longbottom for the feast, and got a briefing on what had gone on in the compartment during the trip up. Longbottom wasn't holding any grudge against Harry (who's name he had just learned) and gave an account of drama and comedy:

"Red-head's a Weasley, hereditary Gryffindors. Hates the Malfoys; that's the blond kid. Mutual without a doubt. They went at each other's throats as the train was pulling out of the station. Was getting the best of him, Weasley that was, when Vince and Greg managed to pin Weasley down and started to rough him up. Granger, she's the one who went Ravenclaw, tried to get them to stop going three on one with Weasley. When it turned out that she was Muggleborn, Malfoy got Greg and Vince… don't know their last names… to sit on Weasley. He called her Mud… a bad word, and tried to get me to help him to throw her out the train window. We know each other a little. Wouldn't do it, not right a dozen ways. I ran out of the compartment and found a Prefect, went back to show him the way.

"Malfoy was lying on the floor, all curled up. She'd kicked him _There_ I think,so one of the big guys was whaling away at her and her doing her best back, and Weasley and the other were going at each other pretty hard. It was all so close and fast that it took a second and third Prefect to sort it all out and split people up to different compartments. I'm surprised you didn't hear about it earlier.

"So on line to go into the Hall for sorting Malfoy and his buddies were threatening people, including me, for… all sorts of things. And Weasley told the girl she owed him now, for protecting her, and she said if he hadn't started the fight she wouldn't have needed any protecting and _they_ started fighting until a Professor Lady broke them up. Anyway, the girl said that if Weasley was so sure he was going to be a Gryffindor she'd go somewhere else, and she did.

"When I got under the Hat the only thing I could think on was that I wanted to go somewhere that I'd be away from _all _of them, including Weasley who I was sure was going Gryffindor. So now I'm in Hufflepuff. I hope I don't drag you all down; I'm not really all that good at magic or other stuff, except gardening."

Harry assured him everything was fine, now. In Hufflepuff you got more coaching and help than any of the other Houses: Ravenclaws were insanely competitive for grades (they had been known to sabotage each other's essays and potions), Gryffindors egged each other on into doing the stupidest things (here Harry was thinking back to some of the stories about school that Remus and Cesar had told him), while in Slytherin you never really wanted to walk down a stairwell with someone close behind you. As for only having one strong point right now; knowing stuff was what you were expected to do going _out_ of school, not coming in. It also wouldn't hurt Neville that their Head of House was the _Herbology_ Professor. The Firsty finally cracked a smile and began to fill up his plate.

?

Harry made sure Neville settled in well; he felt a bit of responsibility for the train thing. While Nev did get as much tutoring as possible, and even surprised himself on how quickly he was picking up Charms, he still had a good deal of trouble in Potions. Harry put it down to nerves; Professor Snape _could_ come off a bit intimidating.

Harry was still getting a good deal more un-solicited 'tutoring' than he felt comfortable with, and the small group of Firsty girls who would look at him and suddenly break out in giggles was un-nerving. But being back at school was great, and he made the team as a substitute Chaser. CD was magnificent, of course.

For the others from the train: the girl Grainger was brilliant (evidently, from the gossip), and was being envied by her dorm-mates. Malfoy and his friends really were a matched set and insulted all those they considered inferior to their Slytherin Pure Blood selves. As this included most of the school, including upper classmen, it made their lives… interesting. Weasley had made some fast friends in Gryffindor, and went out of his way to get up Malfoy's nose, to insult Grainger for her looks, and Longbottom for his cowardice. That didn't make him many friends (or even neutral bodies) in Hufflepuff.

In short, the year was progressing normally for Hogwarts in both the social and the educational sense. The DADA Professor was having a breakdown; coming back from the summer suddenly wearing a turban, smelling of garlic all the time, and twitching and stuttering. The Introduction to Brooms had a number of broken bones and other assorted Infirmary filling incidents. Potions had the odd student rushing out of the lab in tears, and History of Magic had a number of students injuring themselves as they fell out of their seats when they fell asleep. It was shaping up to be a normal enough year, until the Halloween Feast.

Professor Quirrell, bursting into the Great Hall yelling about a Troll and then fainting, certainly caught everyone's attention. Frankly, Harry was a bit disappointed in him. Even with his recently acquired stuttering problem the man _was_ the DADA Professor; a Troll shouldn't be all that difficult to handle. Harry didn't think he, or any of the younger students could, but it wasn't them who should be facing it, but a group of what was supposed to be some of the most skilled magical talent in the world. Or at least that's what the Muggleborn or -raised were told in their orientation briefings.

At the Headmaster's instructions the different Houses were broken up into convenient sized blocks and each led by one of their Prefects to their residence Common Rooms. It was the only way to avoid congestion at the single entrances each of the Houses had, it would make everything go faster. By the way the tables were set up the First and Second Year Hufflepuffs were the last group of their House to be led to their Commons. The trip was just down a corridor or two (depending on the School's layout at the moment), down a staircase and down another (depending on, etc.) corridor or two to the door. What could possibly…

As they left the bottom of the staircase leading to the corridor going to the Hufflepuff dorms, Harry bringing up the rear, they heard from behind them a sound becoming increasingly loud. As the door at the top of the stair opened the sound's origin became quite clear; two high pitched voices screaming out "Troll Troll Troll!" The screamers attempted to go down the long stairs four at a time, and the bushy-haired one managed it. The other, with long dark hair, lost her footing about half way down and desperately launched herself into the air. Mr. Tail-End-Charlie of the Hufflepuff bunch saw this and got himself into position to catch her. His locating skills were fine; he just lacked the size and weight to do more than cushion her meeting with the stone floor with his own body. He felt a bone in his arm go "crunch," as he hit the floor.

The light coming from the top of the stairwell was blotted out as the Troll started to gingerly (steps designed for human sized feet were uncomfortably shallow for that of twelve-foot tall Troll) come down the stairs, one hand holding a club that kept on banging awkwardly into the ceiling and walls.

There was a great jam-up at the House entrance, and the Prefect leading the younger years was on the wrong side of it to do anything (even if he could have) about the Troll. Harry took that all in with a glance as he got to his feet and bit back a scream as the girl pulled herself up by grabbing his injured arm. There was no way even half the students were going to get through the bottleneck before the thing got down to the bottom and found enough room to swing that tree-trunk it was carrying. There was only one thing to do, really.

"Marsden, Peters, Johnston, Longbottom, Wilson…" what was that 'Claw girl's name again? "Granger, Binnins, Worner, Mikey, Gills! Form a line facing the Troll. At my count of three; Jelly Legs Jinx, three repeats. Then we go to Flippendo."

The dark haired girl Harry had caught stepped in at the left of the line as the Troll got down to the bottom and into the wider corridor.

"One, two, three-"

Trolls are big, tough, and immune (or at least resistant) to much magic. Certainly a simple spell shoot out by a beginning student wasn't going to disturb it a lot. The impact of such a spell multiplied by twelve, and then again and again, was something a bit different. Even if its legs didn't collapse under it, the Troll still felt the distinct and unusual feeling of wobbliness. Following that a series of powerful (in combination) jerks that knocked it back and onto its prat. By the time it felt up to getting to its feet again the corridor was clear. With no quarry in sight the Troll went back to its basic search for a way out of this confusing place and wandered off vaguely in the directions of the Slytherin Dungeons.

Inside the Hufflepuff Common Room the door was barred and sealed by wood, iron, and spell. The higher level students were in a semi-circle around it with their wands out and pointing, except for Sixth Year Hypatia Dodd. She had ambition to go for a Medi-Witch certificate and was doing her best in the absence of equipment or potions to immobilize and splint Harry Timmons' broken right arm and deal with his considerable pain. At least partially to distract him from his discomfort two Ravenclaw students, Hermione Granger and Padma Patil, were explaining how they had come to be separated from most of their house and attracted the attention of the intruder.

Granger did her best to present a formal and calm briefing: "Miss Patil and I were talking at the Feast, and realized we needed a somewhat quieter and more private venue for some discussions in regard to courtesies and proper research protocols."

"'Mione and I've been up each other's noses since the term began, and we decided to throw down right then, when everybody would be busy, and no one would interrupt us."

"We found a deserted lavatory and began a full, frank, and spirited discussion. I had just driven a point home to Miss Patil when It poked its' head in the door, and came in."

"We were on the second floor, but it could have heard us from the Forest the way we were screeching. By the way, if you ever have a full, frank, and spirited discussion with 'Mione, watch out for her elbows." Seeing Granger's concerned look Patil smiled, and continued, "Nothing broken, though. Anyway, she doesn't waste a second but knocks a water pipe lose, which makes those tile floors a bit slippery."

"Then Padma saw a container of liquid soap someone had left and added it to the fun. While the Troll was trying to keep itself upright we got out of there and headed pretty much anyplace else. Running blind we ended up meeting you lot. Lucky for us."

"I'm never going to let anyone tell me 'Puffs don't know their stuff, or won't stick it when things are tough. There you were, like something out of Muggle cinema with Lieutenant Timmons lining up his troops and going, like, 'three rounds, _rapid_ fire._ On_ my command!' And the Yellow and Black line(1) going 'Sir, Yes Sir!' and the volleys rattling out."

"That's why we joined in, who could resist a chance to get in on something like that?" Granger concluded as they were shooed away by Dodd for causing her patient too much pain as he tried to hold back his laughter.

?

Madam Longbottom concluded her indignant criticism of the school Administration. "Except for Mr. Timmons, who seems to have made a great impression on Neville, none of the students were injured in the incident. Still, a situation like this cannot be allowed. Even from my grandson's cursory coverage of the event a number of glaring errors of judgment on the part of the Staff, and especially the Administration are obvious. The Headmaster has not been as forthcoming as I might have wished. As a member of the Board of Hogwarts I am invoking my right to inspect and survey the school through my appointed representative. Which, if you accept my commission, will be you."

Lupin felt compelled at that point to confess his Condition, and the fact that he had a history, not altogether pleasant, with one of the Professors. Lady Longbottom considered this new information for a while; weighing the good and bad implications of the revelations, and then concluded that in the main this was a minor problem compared to what she feared was going on at her beloved Alma Mater.

Having her acceptance of his situation, and gotten a signed note from Lady Longbottom, Lupin had a full and frank (though with tea and cucumber sandwiches rather than elbows) discussion with her of not just her immediate security concerns, but of those other questions that she and several other members of the Board had been having for some time. She had only been appointed to the Board in September, at the same time as Lucius Malfoy had. It was a practice of the Ministry to appoint, when possible, those who had students actually going to the School or had a background in education. She wanted someone young, energetic, and experienced at looking into things to do at least a preliminary examination of the place. When she had heard that an old acquaintance of Frank's was in the information gathering business she had known just who she wanted.

When Remus Lupin showed up on Wednesday, November 12th at the front door at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had to let himself in. He had sent, as a common courtesy, a note to the Headmaster announcing his forthcoming visit and its purpose. No reply had been returned. Lupin had also sent a brief and unsigned note to one of the student there, to avoid undesired slapstick comedy when he was spotted there going up and down the corridors and interviewing Staff and Student Body.

While on his way to the Headmaster's office to pay his respects, Lupin met Professor McGonagall in the corridor outside. She seemed quite surprised to see her former student, and not at all unhappy to make an appointment for a short interview later in the day. His reception at the Headmaster's office itself was a less easy affair.

He was left outside the door, with only the gargoyle to chat with, for fifteen minutes before being let in. His short talk with Dumbledore was unrewarding, with the Headmaster referring constantly to how busy he was making sure the premier educational institution in Europe worked properly so that it could graduate ungrateful children who turn upon their mentors with frivolous wastes of their time, and with groundless accusations. Taking that as his cue, Lupin promised to make sure that a copy of his findings would be forwarded to the Headmaster, and said goodbye.

Though the Headmaster had evidently not informed his Staff of the possibility of an observer going about the school and talking with people, Lupin found that a proper use of the Clipboard of Power(2) was effective for getting him in to see almost everyone, and getting them to talk. Starting in the Dungeons, he observed an advanced Potions class (best get the most unpleasant things over with first) taught by Professor Snape.

Snape constantly prowled around the ten students, poking his nose over their shoulders and making them jump. Having heard from Harry about Snapes reputation for making students cry Lupin could well imagine his sarcastic comments and abrupt movements terrifying the younger ones. Lupin noticed that the man was prone to pay distracting attention at the most difficult and dangerous moments in the brewing process. It struck him that this was the hallmark of a person who was extremely nervous and worried about things. His interview with the Potions Master was enlightening.

It could not be said that Snape wasn't bristling a bit at Lupin (even in his human form) at the beginning of their talk. When Lupin inquired if there were things in the Potions programs that should be changed, Snape feebly defended the program and praised the Headmaster as providing everything any Potions Master could desire. On further probing, it slowly came out that… it might be nice to have improved ventilation to suck any poison fumes out of the laboratory area. An emergency deluge shower unit to clear off any acid splatters or even more dangerous materials on students would be nice too. When the beginners were assigned double potions it led to having two batches of them in at once; there was no way he could keep his eye on up to fifty short attention span novices at a time. When he was at the back the ones in the front jogged each other's elbows when things were being added; when he was in the front the ones in the back told each other dirty riddles and forgot to watch how high their burners were set. He really could use a few knowledgeable student assistants to keep an eye on the beginners who were working with materials that could _kill everyone in the room within thirty seconds if they made the wrong mistake!_

Professor Snape had raised his voice a bit, right there at the end.

Lupin thanked Professor Snape for his candor, and promised to make sure his observations were brought to the Board's attention. Professor Snape was slightly appeased, but expressed himself that his yearly requests on these matters to the Headmaster had never seemed to get much response. They parted on somewhat better terms than they had started on.

As Lupin slowly walked down the corridors, checking up on which secret passages were still being used and trying to locate new ones with his more mature powers of magecraft and observation, he mused on Snivelus. He was just a man; unpleasant to be sure, but not the mass of evil Dark Magic they had thought of him back when they were all in school. While he mused and walked, Lupin still kept himself alert enough to notice that someone was using many of the most securely hidden secret passages and exits to the outside.

After a luncheon in the kitchens (somehow Lupin didn't feel Dumbledore would be completely happy to put him up at the faculty table today) the walking tour was resumed. The Advanced History of British Wizardry was still an opportunity to either take a nap or prepare an urgent essay for another class. Charms was still a strength, and favorite course, of the school. The new Arithmancy Professor (new since his time, anyway) seemed on top of things, the Astronomy equipment and teacher were both in fine shape.

It was while he was going to his appointment with Professor McGonagall at her office near the Gryffindor Tower when in an empty corridor that Lupin felt a strange movement in the pocket of the jacket he wore under his robes. He was puzzled for a moment, then realized it was the gadget with one of the fragments of Peter that he always kept on him, just in case. He had stopped taking it out and checking it ever few moments some time ago. Now it had just reacted to something.

He went back to the exact spot where he had felt response, but nothing happened. He searched his memory; there had been no one near. As he looked up and down the long, poorly lit corridor it was hard for the magical detective not to produce a conjecture. In fact he didn't try to resist at all.

Lupin calmed himself; he had an appointment in a few minutes, and he wasn't prepared to go in hot pursuit at the moment anyway. He _did _have an authority to come into Hogwarts and look around at things, with no particular limitation on how often or where he could be looking. Or for that matter, if he could bring his pet, Padfoot.

?

Minerva McGonagall was calm as she sat behind her desk and waited for her talk with her old student. Behind her, on a staggered series of shelves, were trophies, knickknacks, and photos of her with some of her star Transfiguration students. If one of them just happened to be Harry Timmons (Lupin! Lupin!) it was surely just happenstance. Her desire to see how well Remus could hold a straight face under pressure was strictly in the interest of psychological research.

Except for a slight hesitation as his searching eyes took the room in, and a less-than-stumble, he did very well at covering up his surprise.

"You know, Professor, the last time I was in this place I was being chewed out, again, by you for an infraction of the rules I should have known better than to violate. You don't still have a detention I've forgotten about hanging over my head, do you?"

"Wait a moment Remus; I'll put on my stern face for you. There! Now you naughty boy, what have you been up to! I hope you haven't come here to give the Weasley Twins any pointers on how to avoid their just desserts; those two are good enough at being able to dodge out of the way of Prefects and patrols as it is, no need for an old Marauder to be giving them lessons too!"

"I'm glad the school hasn't grown too boring for you, Professor. Still, if you need me to tutor a few pranksters in the finer points, my school spirit wouldn't let me evade that important obligation. Until their request, in proper triplicate form, comes by certified Owl Post I _do_ have a few questions about the events of last October 31st."

Her smile was gone as she related her experiences of that night. For the first time since that awful time in '43, when that poor Ravenclaw girl had died, an invader had roamed the corridors of Hogwarts and endangered its residents. The carnage the Troll could have done was unthinkable if the 'Puffs hadn't managed to give it a knockback.

"I've found out who organized their defense; recommended to Albus the boy get some recognition. Alas, and a shame that I must say it, but Albus lately has cared little for special achievements unless they are by Gryffs. Harry Timmons, it was. Brave little chap, perhaps you could get his impression of the event. Have his photo up behind me; he's quite the best of my Second Years."

Lupin saw the special intensity of her gaze as she said the last part. She knew something, but how much? If it was the whole truth… well, she hadn't told Dumbledore yet, at least. The old man wouldn't have resisted the urge to trumpet the return of his "Boy Who Lived."

McGonagall continued, "I'm sure his father, whom I missed meeting when I gave him his orientation, must be very proud of him." There was an extremely pointed stare at Lupin at the conclusion of that statement, and a slight rise in her tone.

"Merlin and Nimue!" Lupin thought. "Does she know the truth? No, she'd have brought up Lily directly; the girl had always been her favorite. Oh… she thinks Harry's my kid! Best for now to play along, lightly."

After a few interminable seconds Lupin responded, "I don't think Timmons' father could be anything but bursting with pride about him, smashing Trolls or not. I _have_ heard a little about him, and the boy … must be better and braver than his father." The last part was said with a slight rush and sank into a bit of an embarrassed whisper. Lupin wondered if he really had become such a good liar, or if he actually meant it. James had been his closest friend, but looking back at things none of the Marauders seemed to have grown up as fast as Harry was doing.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Lupin picked up the conversational ball again and began to question her about the school in general, especially the administration and security arrangements. Here McGonagall's basic loyalty to Dumbledore warred with her natural honesty. She had been concerned over the last few years at Albus' growing apathy, lack of energy, and increasing slipshoddiness ever since the Potter boy had been… lost. Having no children of his own Albus had, sometimes in an inept way, tried to be a sort of grandparent of his friends' and protégés' offspring. His failure to protect James and Lily, and then when his obvious disaster (even after having received warnings from his trusted Deputy) in caring for their child became apparent to him, it had damaged some vital part of his psyche. Machiavellian he certainly had always been, but always he had felt it was for a good purpose. Failing the Potters a second time had been too much.

As the day was ending Lupin made arrangements with the Deputy Headmistress to come back in a few days to complete his survey of the school. He mentioned that he might give his dog an outing and bring him along. He would have been interested in the look that came over Minerva's face after he left.

Author's Notes:

1-As opposed to the traditional Thin Red Line of British Infantry, the colors of Hufflepuff House are Yellow and Black.

2-Carried with authority, brandished with determination, it is a mighty key in either Muggle or Wizarding society.


	8. Chapter 8

I do not own, or receive any benefits, from the Harry Potter Properties

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 8: No, Mr. Black. I intend to…

By Larry Huss

The Old Man was working on something big, Marcia could tell. Maybe the others in the office could also tell, but they just carried on as if him only showing up every other day or so wasn't an abandonment of his responsibilities. Sure, he kept up on all the administration, got briefed on all the cases, and even still managed to figure out when they were using a bad strategy or had gone off on the wrong scent. But that wasn't enough; he should be around every day, early and late, always there to talk to and see… Marcia McCartny realized that she wasn't completely over her emotional "thing" about Remus Lupin.

She didn't have to follow him around too much to know that he was still seeing that… high-living QC (1) (there, she'd managed not to resort to character assassination). Whatever he was doing he'd had to break some dates with her. An occasional glance at his appointment book and a chat over tea with the Office Manager was enough to get that information. When she saw Mr. Romanescu pick him up for dinner one afternoon the way they were talking (too low to hear anything but the tone) and their gestures made it clear that they were working on something together. Something big. A lack of curiosity had never been considered a job qualification for a private investigator; Marcia McCartny was doing her best to learn how to be a good one.

?

It had taken over a week, with Lady Longbottom getting a bit insistent about further progress reports, before Lupin was ready to go back to Hogwarts. A week in which Cesar and he had come up with a workable (they hoped) search plan and cover story for a huge black dog that might be wandering the halls of Hogwarts unattended. They hadn't informed Lupin's employer of the small expansion of inquiries they were going to attempt.

Cesar had been prepared with a loose collar chain with identification tags:

Corporal

Has had Rabies, Distemper shots

If lost contact R. Lupin at….

He had also had Memory Charms done on him to refresh his recollection of Peter's particular ratty scent, and also his human one, just in case. With his wand, some selected potions, matches and a silver brandy flask filled with 120 proof rum he felt ready for any contingency.

Lupin crossed his fingers and hoped for the best.

When Lupin, with 'Corporal' on his leash, came up to the front door of Hogwarts this time he received a much more official reception. The Deputy Headmistress was there, as well as a selection of the students for him to interview, both about the Halloween Incident and conditions in general. The Headmaster sent a note regretting not being able to see him that day as his sock drawer badly needed re-arrangement. With Dumbledore that might well have been a serious excuse.

Letting his dog off the leash, he assured the Deputy Headmistress that he was house-trained and would come back if he needed to be let out. Lupin told her he was looking after the beast for a few weeks, for an agricultural friend who had to be abroad on business. Arranging for a meeting at the Gryffindor Tower after classes were done, Lupin led the small gaggle of students a classroom in a currently unused wing of the third floor, past a door marked "Keep Out! This means You! Violators will be Eaten!" A set of uncomfortable benches (it builds character!) had been conjured for the students to wait on.

The children were called in one at a time, seated in a comfortable chair, and allowed to dip their hands into a bowl of Muggle candies that Lupin had set up on the desk. He, of course, put all normal (for him; a rather higher standard than most would demand) silencing and security charms up before starting to ask questions that the Dicta-Quill would take down. Harry Timmons was the third student called in for an interview.

Aside from the (after the door was closed) hugging and personal questions, the only two significant parts of the interview were distinctive. The shrunken package of chocolate Lupin said to carefully hide and use privately turned into a gift from Madame Longbottom to the whole Hufflepuff House for their bravery and teamwork. Harry demanded that. The other part was his description of why he had seized command of his Housemates:

"We wouldn't have all gotten inside, and even if we had the door couldn't have been braced enough before it got there; had to do a delaying action. I figured that a Troll must have about three times the mass and magical resistance of human, so at least four times the normal spell would be needed to take care of it. If a student was figured at half as good with a basic spell like Jelly-legs, then ten or twelve should make it pretty wobbly. Teamwork's always been a 'Puff specialty, so I figured we could do it on the fly if I kept things simple. Worked well enough, I expect. Though I'm thinking spells to make things slippery might have been a good help. Because it was too much a near run thing, and like my football coach always says, footwork is always important.

"Why me, and not anyone else? It was obvious; we couldn't really defend against it, we had to attack in some way, and no one else was paying attention or taking command. If not me, who?"

Lupin assured his young friend that at least half the time that was how things got done anyway in the adult world, and told him to call in the next student, and let the ones who had already been interviewed go back to classes.

After all the interviews had been conducted (at least half of them were just to kill time so that Corporal could roam around and check for scent trails) it was obvious that the Hogwarts rumor mill was unable to provide any more information about the Troll Incident. Also, that Harry was fairly high on the visibility scale for a Second Year; comments about him seemed to follow certain trends:

N. Longbottom: "It's Harry, what else could you expect?"

P. Marsden: "Bossy little git; good thing he was there, though."

A. Binnins: "When we're flying he's always the one calling the plays, drives the Varsity crazy."

P. Patil: "Shame he's so short, I couldn't go out with someone shorter than me."

Z. Worner: "He's tutoring me in Transfigurations. If I let him get killed I'd never pass!"

J. Gills: "As soon as we were in in line it was obvious we could do it, but someone had to start getting us set up."

H. Granger: "He's on my list." Beyond that she was strangely uncommunicative, for her.

Lupin figured he had enough padding to fill out a nice report for Lady Longbottom. Now he had to get serious and see if he could sweat out a reason for the Troll to be in the school at all. Nothing answering that question had been presented to the Ministry, newspapers, or Board. Start with Filch, then Quirrell, and finally give the Headmaster another chance to snub him? Yes, that sounded about right.

?

The great black dog had no trouble finding the scent of Peter the Rat and a bit of Peter the Traitor scent as well. From the number of trails and their freshness it was obvious that Peter was roaming the halls almost nightly, and was using the secret passages to get into the town with some regularity. All the trails seemed to start and finish at the entrance to the Gryffindor Tower. Now they needed to have an excuse to get into the Tower and track him to wherever he was currently living.

Being a rat most of the time, it seemed most likely that Peter was hiding as either someone's pet, or as a feral invader. Living as a wild creature there was too much chance that he'd be caught and end up as part of an unofficial Potion of some sort; rats were so useful that way! Cesar hoped that Peter was being kept in the boys' dorms. Getting into the girls' rooms had never been much of a challenge to him even in his human form. Now, though, he felt that it would be a bit pervy to wander about with a bunch of adolescent (and even some pre-adolescent) girls in various states of presentability at his advanced age; he was over thirty!

Perhaps he should give Harry some tips on how to bypass the antique security arrangements that kept the genders (officially) separated in their sleeping arrangements. Did the 'Puffs separate the kids this way? When he was in school he had gotten into the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor dorms easily enough. The Snake and 'Puff arrangements were a mystery to him; Peter had done the research for the Map, and in his rat form a good many normal protections against intrusion simply didn't come into effect.

Making a mental note to ask Harry about how these things were done in his House (inquiring minds wanted to know!) he began to lope back to where Lupin should be finishing of his interviews. Even his sharp ears didn't detect a sound before "Petrificus Totalus" was spoken in a firm voice behind him, and he became as rigid as a statue.

"So, Sirius Black. You've come back to your old haunts to do more mischief, have you?" the voice continued. Another murmured spell and he was floating off the ground and being propelled down the corridors to a currently unused room. From the chains, restraints, and devices attached to the walls, it seemed to be one that had a past as a less than cheerful laboratory at some point in its varied past.

Sirius knew the voice; it was the one that, more than his parents, more than any Auror, more than _Dumbledore_, meant Authority to him. He had been caught by Minerva McGonagall! What would become of him now?

?

Once again, as had happened so many times when he had been caught at mischief as a student, Professor McGonagall had him at her mercy, and was putting him to the question.

"Do you really think I never knew you boys had gotten other forms while you were students here? I saw you, many the time, in the night pranking and prowling about as beasts. We've not had a bunch of Animagi all at once here since; you lot were the last group. I expect Remus knows who you are; he's a fool if he doesn't, and he's no fool.

"Before I call the Aurors to take you both in I'm going to be asking you a few questions to satisfy my curiosity, and no bad jokes! I'll be taking precautions, so don't try to get cute with me, lad! It _will_ hurt you more than me if you do."

With that, she let loose with a barrage of spells that proved that even if not all of the Professors at Hogwarts were masters of the Art, she certainly was. Sirius found himself back in human form, stripped of his wand, potions, matches and brandy flask, robes, shoes, and trousers, and chained to a very cold and wet wall before he could even begin to formulate a plan of jumping her as she released the body-bind spell. People are often easier to dominate when they are dressed only in their underwear and socks; certainly Sirius found himself wanting to avoid the chance of a more rigorous and humiliating interrogation. His one attempt at escape, turning back into the hound and running, was dealt with by a prepared chain that stopped the transformation. Evidently the Professor had been getting ready for this for some time.

Accepting the three drops of Veritaserum he began to answer her questions, confident that at least _this_ time she was questioning him, the Truth was the thing that could set him Free.

When did he become a Death Eater?

"Never."

Why did he betray the Potters?

"Never did."

Why did he go after Peter, rather than just run for it?

"Had to get the little traitor for killing James and Lily, messed it up badly enough to let him escape."

How did he avoid a sentence of the Kiss at the trial?

"Never had a trial, never had an interrogation. Everyone wanted to go partying after Voldemort was put down, just got shipped straight to Azkaban without all the messy formalities."

Why had he come back to Hogwarts?

"Peter is here, Remus twigged to it, and now I've smelled him. He's in the Tower, and goes in and out and in and out, and out and in and up and down and in and out…"

McGonagall could see that the he was having a bad reaction to the potion, and gave him the antidote. She sat down on a disused Rack and began to think furiously. There were ways to beat the Potion; in the years since he had been a student Sirius might have learned some of them. Though… all needed either preparation or a great deal of mental discipline; never Sirius' strong suit. She'd never been much of a scent hunter herself; in her cat form she did her best not to pay attention to the odors of all of her Lions on a day to day basis. When there could be up to a hundred or more young men, some with irregular bathing habits, she felt such behavior was just self-preservation. (2)

"Peter, he was the rat?"

Sirius just nodded his head; between the spells and the potions he was barely able to lean against the wall.

"If he's alive there are some question _he_ should be answering too. Aren't you dead by the way? I'm sure I read about it in the **Daily Prophet**."

"The **Prophet**? Then I must be dead; they've not been wrong in living memory."

"Point taken, Mr. Black. Now you stay here, I've got a welcome home party to arrange. Do you have a clue to Mr. Pettigrew's location?"

"He's most likely a student's pet of some sort, in the Tower. Leaves it pretty often as a rat, sometimes moves around the school in as a human. I don't know where in the Tower; haven't had a chance to find out. Come to think of it… I haven't noticed any perfume on him. So probably one of the boys is holding him.

"But for Merlin's sake, don't tell Dumbledore until you have everything nailed down!"

McGonagall pursed her lips, and asked, "And why not tell the Headmaster and head of Wizarding Britain's legal system?"

Black pulled himself away from the wall and stood up as straight as the chains allowed: "As Headmaster of Hogwarts, how well will he take the news that a fugitive has been staying here in the school? What will he do with the news, and those that bring it to his attention? As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, now and at the time I was discarded, how glad will he be to know that an innocent man was sent to Azkaban? What do you _think_ happens to people who bring embarrassing news about those in power? Especially when they can be disappeared with so little effort?"

"He'd never!" McGonagall spat out. But she changed her list of those she was going to consult with to Filius and Pomona. After putting Black into a body bind again she left the room to round up her selections with the speed that had gotten her the label "Minerva the Missile" back when she played Chaser for Gryffindor.

Pulling Filius from class was easy enough; he was critiquing some essays in Advanced Charms 6th Year. Appointing a Prefect who happened to be in the class as monitor, he cheerfully told them to rip each others' essays to pieces (verbally) and left, pelting her with questions as they headed to the greenhouses. There they had to help Pomona with a difficult grafting before she agreed to join them.

Using her authority as the Deputy Headmistress, she got Lupin's current position from the Portraits; he was in the residential areas where they were most clustered. The Professors agreed on their tactics as they approached where Lupin was pacing worriedly where he had expected to meet his dog.

Seeing three Professors approaching him, with wands drawn, Lupin made an instant decision; there was no way that he was going to be able to get the drop on them. He would go along quietly.

In short order, Lupin was shackled to a wall (stripped only of his wand) and being asked questions about the Curious Case of Sirius Black. His utter belief in Black's innocence, and his ability to present leads to confirm the facts that had brought him to that conclusion, impressed his captors. He was forced to write a few notes: one to his office staff and one to Lady Longbottom, saying that he was following a lead and would be out of touch for a few days. He asked, and was given permission, to also send a note to his Muggle concubine (as they saw it). Then, a Draught of Living Death put him into a state of blankness that didn't lift until the counter-potion was administered days later.

As he came to his senses he was glad to note that he was no longer chained to the wall. What he was less happy with was that the person dribbling the antidote into his mouth was Harry Timmons.

?

"This place has been a madhouse the last few days, Mr. Lupin! Teachers cancelling classes, and the Great Pet Inspection, and Aurors visiting the Headmaster, and Professor Snape getting hurt, and Professor Quirrell going all missing, and Weasley saying he's being picked on, and…"

It was obvious that Harry was having a great time. After letting him run down a bit and letting him get a chance to catch his breath, Lupin was able to get a fuller exposition of things. Harry had been waiting to see him and Cesar (the boy knew of Cesar's talent, and thought it the coolest thing) leave that day. When they didn't leave, and didn't show up for dinner in the Great Hall that evening, Harry had started to nose around a bit. It was obvious, after a little questioning of some of his friends in the other Houses, that Professors Flitwick and McGonagall had joined Professor Sprout in doing some very intensive research project, first in the Library and then off school grounds. Classes were being juggled or cancelled; the Headmaster then took over teaching Transfigurations for several days, and everyone was going mad trying to figure out what was going on. Then the announcement was made that all magical pets, starting with those in Ravenclaw House, would have to be given an inspection because of some recent Ministry health regulation about magical creatures.

When they got to Gryffindor, Ron Weasley's rat got confiscated, probably because it was carrying some loathsome disease (it was a rat, wasn't it?) and the boy started whining it wasn't fair. The rat was his hereditary rat, passed on from brothers before him, and it hadn't gotten anybody sick before! Didn't get him his rat back though, no matter how much he whined.

Then a couple of days later some Aurors showed up and had this secret conference with the Headmaster, and when they left _they dragged someone away!_ The Headmaster didn't even let them use the Floo, he was so angry at them. He was taking names and everything; did Lupin think the Headmaster could still give them Detentions?

Anyway, during the Gryff/Slytherin match the next day, Professor Snape cut out (and him being Head of Slytherin) when he saw Professor Quirrell leave the stands, and the next thing anyone knows he was getting treated for a ripped up shoulder and _Quirrell had disappeared!_ Nobody's seen him in two days.

Even before this, Harry had been searching around after hours ("Did you know there are dogs with three heads?") until he had finally found Lupin. After that it was child's play to diagnose his problem, steal an antidote, and charm off the chains. Well, Patil and Granger had done the diagnosis, Madam Pince had directed him to the books with the more advanced charms, and Harry now owed the Weasley Twins ("They're the interesting ones in the family.") two favors for the potion. Still, all-in-all, not that hard to put together a rescue. Now they just had to sneak Lupin out of the school, and away from whoever had trapped him. "By the way, exactly who did do this, Mr. Lupin? I guess I should be on the look-out for them from now on, right?"

Telling Harry that they'd get to that later, Lupin headed out the door. They hadn't gotten twenty feet down the corridor when they saw a tall form approach them; even in the dim light coming from the distant windows looking out into the afternoon light, it was obviously someone wearing a tall turban; the elusive Mr. Quirrell.

Whatever his normal problems, Quirrell had not trouble beating Lupin to the wand draw; after all he had his wand already in his hand, and Lupin still hadn't gotten his back from whichever professor currently held it. Quirrell gave a quick jerk of his head, telling them to go back the way they had come, and spoke without any stutter at all.

"That way, third door on the right. There I was thinking I'd have to go the through the bother of reviving and freeing you, fortune favors the strong, as usual. And here we have little Mr. Tidbit. Just the thing to make sure Fluffy has himself a fine time."

He reached into a pocket of his robe and pulled out a bottle, popping the top off with his thumb. He never took the point of his wand off of the line to Lupin's chest. He had the oddest and nastiest smile on his face that Lupin had ever seen.

"Listen, you don't need the boy, if you let him go he'll keep quiet, he'll be too frightened not to. Really, I'm hostage enough for you."

"On the contrary, he's just right for my needs, when we add you in. Now let me just add the sauce." With that, Quirrell splashed them with the contents of the bottle, which had the unmistakable scent of… beef gravy.

Lupin tried to slide himself between Harry and madman, but he was foiled when Harry stepped toward the teacher, and with quivering lip and trembling voice asked, "Are… are you going to feed us to the big dog, sir? I don't want to be eaten, sir, it scares me."

"Ah, Mr. Timmons, you really were the best of my students in your year! Always so quick-witted and bored in my classes. And who's to blame you? I was terribly bored there myself. Yes, of course you are going to be fed to Fluffy the Cerberus. While he is gnawing on Lupin's bones, and cracking yours, I'll use the distraction to get past him and to the only treasure that means anything, life itself!"

"Oh sir, that's so _cruel_!" Harry whimpered and pivoted a bit to his left.

Quirinus Quirrell was tall, a touch over six feet. He was wearing normal professor's garb: a bulky robe. Harry Timmons was young, short, quick, and had been given a beginner's course of self defense by Peter Anderson of the Nottingham PD. Harry braced himself off of his left foot and did a quick side kick with his right foot into Quirrell's right kneecap; the man's groin was too high and protected for a sure shot at it.

As his leg buckled under his weight, Quirrell grabbed the little menace that had attacked him, getting his left hand about the little beast's throat. He screamed as his hand began to smoke, and then seemed to catch fire as they hit the ground together, the boy on top.

Harry felt the most horrible burning sensation as he was dragged to the ground, landing on top of the teacher. As the man pulled his scorched hand from Harry's throat, the boy estimated his position, and snapped his forehead into the man's face, hearing the nose crunch. Then he felt himself flying in the air as Lupin reached him and pulled him off his enemy.

After getting Harry clear, Lupin stomped down with the heel of his boot onto Quirrell's right wrist, crushing it and making him drop his wand. Quirrell muttered something and shoved his other hand at Lupin, who felt himself knocked back a dozen feet and onto his back. Quirrell stumbled upright and began to stagger away, with Harry getting his wand out and sending the few attacking spells he knew at the man, at considerably more than normal power. Lupin scrambled over to where Quirrell's wand was, and snatched it up, as the turban unrolled from the Professor's head, to reveal another face pointing toward the rear.

Harry was startled, and slowed the rhythm of his spell casting. Lupin, more experienced, was handicapped by the wand being unusually unsuited to him and being plain uncooperative. By the time he had managed to get it to shoot out a Binding Charm, Quirrell had managed to duck around a corner. Telling Harry (with no expectation the boy would listen to him) to go the other way and get help, Lupin set off in pursuit.

By the time he had dived and rolled around the corner Quirrell had disappeared behind, Lupin saw that the man was about forty yard away and out of accurate wand range under the current conditions. Putting on speed Lupin began closing the distance, meanwhile trying to bring the wand more under his control. Hearing Lupin's boots slapping on the floor and his muttering at the wand, Quirrell jumped toward a moving stairway that promised a way down and toward one of Hogwarts' side exits.

He landed on it, with less than perfect grace, and gave a wild laugh. He looked up at Lupin, who was trying to figure out where the staircase would finally end up stopping, and yelled out: "I'll kill you both, ya Mudblood bastards! You can never stop me, I'm immortal!"

It was only when Quirrell turned to go down the stairs, and perhaps escape from the school, that he saw down on the ground floor the Arithmancy Professor, Septima Vector, confusedly pulling out her wand from a waist level holder. His head flipped back and forth, between the menace behind him and the inevitable obstruction below. Vector called out to an unseen passerby, "Wilkinson, run and get someone in authority here, now! Don't bother with being polite, hear!"

Quirrell came to a decision. He already knew he couldn't fight off those above without a wand, and Vector below would soon be reinforced. There was no way he could explain away his burns, or the threats he'd made. Only one thing for it then! Quirinus Quirrell threw himself off the still-moving staircase to the ground sixty feet below. The thud of his landing was clearly heard by Lupin, Harry, Vector, and several students who had run up to see what all the shouting was about. All of them were able to see a green, misty form, more than a pale ghost but still less than solid, leave the body on the ground and flee down a dark stretch of corridor.

Remus Lupin, who had seen something like this several years earlier, was not a man prone to obscenity. Therefore it meant much more than if a profane man had said it.

"Oh bloody shit."

Author's Notes:

Queen's Council: a superior class of lawyer in the British system. Judges are selected from their rank

If, as the Potter Wiki says, there could be up to 1,000 students at Hogwarts at a time, and on average the genders are in balance, and the intake is moderately even year to year somewhere between 90 and 130 male students should be in each House at any one time.


	9. Chapter 9

I do not own, or receive any benefits from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 9: Through a glass, clearly

By Larry Huss

After the rather spectacular suicide of a teacher, in plain view of another teacher and a round dozen or more student, even the Headmaster couldn't avoid having the Aurors in to do an investigation. Lupin and Timmons were cleared immediately. Lupin's wand was checked (McGonagall had slipped it back to him before the Aurors showed up) and turned up clean of any suspicious spells, and the Second Year was obviously beyond suspicion. The fact the Quirrell's corpse tested free on Imperius or any mind-altering potions was quickly established. The second face on the back of his head, and the reports of his last words, confirmed the Aurors findings: Death Due to Meddling With Things Beyond That Which Wizards Were Meant to Know. A common enough cause of death, really: third in frequency behind Terminal Splinching While Intoxicated, and Dragonpox. There was some woman from the Ministry who wanted to bring Lupin up on charges of murder due to him being a werewolf, but she was a known crackpot and the Aurors ignored her as usual.

All the interrogations that Harry was spared from by the Aurors being naïve (at least about him) were actually attempted by his housemates. He avoided them by doing his best to get all weepy eyed and traumatized by the whole event, confident that in the few days until the term's end he could keep evading anyone insistent on finding things out. The drawback to this otherwise successful ploy was that it only encouraged the more nurturing girls (evidently all of them, as far as Harry was concerned) of Hufflepuff to give him hugs and other reassuring physical evidence that he had their sympathy and support. Among the other 'Puffs only Neville Longbottom saw through the façade, and Harry had to swear him to secrecy, promising to write him with the whole story over the summer.

Before "Quirrell's Leap" (as it was quickly named in school folklore), McGonagall's team had been coming to the conclusion that Black and Lupin had, in fact, been telling them the truth about Black's time in Azkaban and what led to it. They had apprehended Pettigrew, and turned him in to the Aurors over Dumbledore's objections that he could be a valuable source of information and also turned to the Light side. They had been trying to figure out what to do about Lupin and Black when the whole thing had blown up. After all, the Staff members were guilty of the imprisonment and kidnapping of Lupin, and either the same for Black, or else concealing a fugitive. Wizarding law was rather unclear on that. Lacking anything that could be considered fulltime professionals it was basically an immense number of often contradictory court decisions mixed in with absolutely arbitrary judge's rulings. People without deep pockets (for bribes), or an absolute genius for courtroom oratory, tried to avoid the majesty and power of the Wizarding courts, where Justice was not only blindfolded but frequently out on holiday for the duration.

Minerva herself was glad that Black and Lupin were content to keep things quiet; Black was happy enough to escape from the role of Lord Black, and enjoyed being Cesar Romanescu. He was currently disposing of all the Black properties and holdings he could, prior to having a will of his "discovered" that would pass on all the dignities of the name to his cousin, Andromeda Tonks. Lupin had agreed to keep quiet about his little detention, if Harry Timmons was kept out of the limelight.

Harry Timmons, Harry Timmons. She had found out enough to know that the boy had discovered Lupin, and managed to get him free. She really thought that Remus was being foolishly prudish in not acknowledging the lad. Loyal as any 'Puff ever was, as cunning in getting the antidote as the best of Slytherin, and as daring as Godric Gryffindor himself in going up against some dark and forbidden relic of Voldemort. She had seen the face on the back of Quirrell's head, and had realized it was a distorted version of the Dark Lord she had fought during the war a decade and more ago.

As best as she could put the various eyewitness statements together, some essence had come from the body at the base of the stair and fled, not dissipated. She had brought that fact to the attention of the Headmaster, who seemed almost relieved that his long held fears that some part of Voldemort had survived was vindicated after all. He had made her promise not to tell anyone about this without his permission. She had agreed, merely not letting him know that she had already spoken to Pomona and Filius. The shock of finding out about Pettigrew (and the inability to keep him as a secret weapon) had been enough of a strain for the hundred and eleven year-old Headmaster; no need to have him worrying any more than he had to! At least in the wake of Pettigrew's confessions (under Veritaserum) the whole business about Sirius Black had been expunged from the record (except his official death notice), and except, perhaps, for breaking out of Azkaban the young man was currently in the clear. Now the problem was to do something about that cursed spirit that had been in Quirrell. Perhaps she could get Albus to revive the Order of the Phoenix, and set them on the hunt? Yes, that might do very well.

?

That summer, Harry spent the first half of the holidays with Peter Andersons' family. The kids there loved him. Janice appreciated his help keeping track of them, and in the garden. Peter enjoyed his enthusiasm at learning everything from home repairs to real self-defense (not that garbage they showed on the telly). He also thought it amusing that Harry had evidently just discovered Girls. He was able to pull off a fair degree of Mr. Cool for a thirteen year old when he was down at the pool, but Peter could see that the kid was still bewildered by how much females could affect him.

Peter knew that his parents had already spoken to Mr. Lupin. With Harry around so little they felt that they couldn't take money for boarding him anymore. The boy could stay with them whenever he wanted, he just would have to accept that he was going to be a member of the family. Peter didn't mind having another (sort of) little brother. He made Harry promise to write, at least to the children, while he was up at school the coming year.

The weeks in Shropshire that summer that year were great. Harry brushed up on his potions skills, practiced his wand work (and learned some nifty new defensive spells from Cesar), flew, and took Caroline Miller out for ice cream twice. They both knew that he was only a short-time summer visitor, but it was fun without being as emotionally complicated as going somewhere with someone that they'd have to deal with for the other forty odd weeks of the year also. Harry began to reassess the girls back at Hogwarts; evidence was piling up that his summer growth spurt wouldn't mean that they would be shifting all their attention to the next short First Year that was sorted into Hufflepuff that Fall. Evidence was also growing that he wouldn't mind that in the least.

On August 14th of that year, Harry Timmons began to study a very peculiar art under the tutelage of Cesar Romanescu. The art of erasing a previous identity while preserving its assets.

On that day the Master and the Student went into the London branch of Gringotts Bank and began the subtle transfer of the Potter family assets into the vaults of Harry Timmons. Harry had had the plusses and minuses of the situation carefully worked out for him before he had started this course of action. For instance, about the Dursleys; if he wanted to reveal himself as Harry Potter after his 17th birthday he would be able to avoid dealing with them forever, and they would have no claims on his estate, an important consideration if he wished to preserve a fine and noble name.

After reviewing his memories under a borrowed Pensieve, and even doing a camouflaged reconnaissance of the (new & improved) Dursleys, Harry had decided not being their relation in any way at all suited him just fine. As for reviving the name of Potter… at Hogwarts he had picked up enough of popular Wizarding culture and read enough Wizarding media that he had developed a massive aversion to this Harry Potter fellow. He was like nothing Harry Timmons had ever seen or wanted to be like. Harry Timmons had no aversion to being well off (and was all for getting the money), but he felt that his parents would have wanted him to lead a real life, rather than being the glittering fantasy savior that was Harry Potter to the Wizarding public.

Having completed the delicate (and costly) initial moves in transferring the available cash to the Timmons vault (and another smaller one under a different Key), the two went to pick up Harry's Third Year supplies. There seemed to be an awful lot of books by this Lockhart fellow who was going to be doing DADA the coming year. He was doing a signing later that week at **Flourish and Blots**, and the staff was setting up displays of his works. After picking up the requirements for the coming year Cesar led Harry down a set of tight and crooked lanes to a second hand book shop and loaded him up with Defense books from previous years, not being sold (to their publishers dismay) due to all the DADA classes this year having an all-Lockhart reading list.

Taking mercy on the boy, Cesar led him next door to a second-hand luggage shop where he bought a slightly battered but fully serviceable trunk with a full range of storage and security features: insides six time the size of the outside, Featherlite Charm, Single Key Charm, and enhanced physical integrity spells. It also had a set of wheels on one end for use in the Muggle world. The shop keeper permanently stenciled "Harry Timmons" on the ownership label, and hearing them discussing Harry's eagerness to get back to practicing with the House Team directed them to his cousin's used broom shop. The luggage-mage told them that it had a practically brand-new Cleansweep Seven that just needed a bit of loving care to be back in topnotch shape. When they got there, Cesar claimed that he was something of an expert on flying spells and equipment, and insisted that given a month or so he could have it performing beyond manufacturer's specs. He promised to send it up to Harry when he was done; it wouldn't have the raw speed of a new Nimbus or Comet, but it would have excellent turning radius and yaw control, just the thing for a Chaser.

?

At 9:35 PM on the moon-lit evening of August 14th, 1992, Remus Lupin found himself unchained and in a quandary. Oh, he was relieved that he had, after all, not turned out to be a ravening creature of hatred and destruction. Though he hadn't arranged it, he was passing _that_ test with flying colors.

It had started, for him, when Phyllidia Barnes, QC (Queens Counselor), had broken into his house bare moments ahead of a professional criminal intent on eliminating her. As she was the all too effective prosecutor in a case likely to send his well-beloved mentor to HM Prison Wormwood Scrubs for a major part of his expected lifespan, the thug had decided to take direct, preventive action.

Lupin had been at that moment locked in the basement room of his small house in a semi-rural suburban community. He was feeling mellow, but wasn't even a quarter sloshed on a bowl of fair quality Irish Whiskey when he had heard a distant auto accident, the window in his kitchen door getting smashed, and then heard that side door opened, closed, and then smashed open again a few seconds later. There were the sounds of a struggle: two voices (one female and almost recognizable, the other male), and then the clatter of high heels going lickety-split down the cellar steps, with some loud clumping of a rather bigger person in hot pursuit. Then the door was unlocked and thrown open, and he saw his girlfriend of over a year run in, attempt to shut the door behind her but then thrown to her knees several feet away when a very large man (carrying what could best be described as a machete) knocked her back as he shoved the door open. As the two people took a few seconds to catch their breath they became aware of a strong, deep bass growling coming from an immense canine rising to its feet from in front of a flickering television set.

For Phyllidia Barnes (still QC) it had started a few minutes earlier when she had, just by chance (not _at_ _all_ because she was worried about how he had been keeping out of sight the last few weeks), been driving past the home of her lover for the past year. She was thinking of Time, particularly how long it was before her personal calendar came to the date marked "You are now going to be a childless Maiden Aunt for the rest of your life." She thought she saw a glimmer of light come from his basement window, but that must have been a lie. He had called and told her he wouldn't be around this evening, and he couldn't be meeting her in his comfortable basement (equipped with all sorts of kinky, sexy gear that he never used with amorous QCs). So he couldn't be cheating on her tonight with that little chippy who worked for him as a Jr. Detective, could he? Before Phyllidia could work up a good tirade on the iniquity of all men as base deceivers of innocent and trusting womanhood, her auto was passed by a previously unseen car that suddenly veered into hers, forcing it into a ditch.

From there on it became a fragmentary experience of escape, running, somehow breaking her way into Remus' house (all of her work with criminal cases having given her a surprising amount of information on the art), and then keeping ahead of a swinging blade by pelting the wielder with assorted household artifacts and bric-a-brac. That is, until in her ultimate flight she was knocked back off her feet before she could lock the unusually strong door she had noticed long ago in the cellar, and saw the absolutely biggest dog she had ever seen get to its feet, growling.

As it stalked past her, hackles raised, she gave the most sincere prayer of relief and thanksgiving in her life. Remus had never had a dog before when she had been over; it was so thoughtful of him to have rectified that omission for this evening. She turned toward the couch near the television to thank him, but here was no Remus Lupin to be seen.

Lupin was confused. Protect the female, that was an easy one; biting_ her_ was clean not going to happen. With intelligence (in human terms) dropped by a factor of about three he was trying to deal with how to go about that primary task. It was the secondary considerations that were vaguely formed in his mind that were the problems. As a wolf he was brilliant, but a lot of that involved ways to get in quick and rip someone's throat out. He was somehow certain that he didn't want to do that, and that to just hamstring or nip the menace in his Den would also be a bad idea, somehow. Meanwhile the tall invader had a long shiny stick, and was definitely making hostile noises and advancing.

Deep within him Lupin knew that this was going to hurt, but he leaped anyway. He felt the sharp edge cut deeply into his side as his front paws hit the man's shoulders, and knocked the criminal off balance. Back on all fours Lupin swung around at knee level and using his hindquarters swept the man's feet out from under him. As the man fell onto his back he lost his grip on the machete, and Lupin knew then that this fight could be won. Fighting his instincts took immense self-control; using his sharp clawed paws instead of his infectious teeth seemed so awkward and wrong. But the alternatives were either to kill the man, or turn him into a werewolf himself, and Lupin (even in his wolfy state) knew that would be a _very bad thing_.

Immense strength, magically enhanced claws, and a fierce determination fueled by rage and pain mean that clothing was quickly shredded by flailing paws, followed by skin. The man's screams of pain strained Lupin's control even more, but years of training as a wizard, and long practiced self discipline exercises (needed for the thought-hiding skill of Occlumency) kept him from letting go and giving the fellow a good fanged ripping. Instead he stayed above the prone man and continued to slash with fore-paws at him until the screams became whimpers. Then Lupin sat back and tried to figure out the next step.

Phyllidia solved that problem. She had never quite understood why Remus had an extensive collection of chains and locks decorating the walls of his basement den; he seemed to find some amusement in seeing them up there. She, herself, was not into that sort of thing. Though she sometimes wondered… Anyways, she now found the perfect use for them. Binding the bleeding man was awkward but not dangerous; he was so beaten she didn't even have to threaten to set the dog on him if he resisted. After that she shakily walked back upstairs and called for the police.

Despite her inexperience in dealing with policemen in this sort of situation, Phyllidia felt that she did fairly well. She told her story clearly, she made certain that all the legal formalities were taken with the criminal (no minor technical error was going to get _this_ fellow back on the streets!), and she was even able to prevent the dog from being brought in for observation as a dangerous beast. The experienced coppers were able to swear that the beast had been so well controlled that he had never even bitten the man during the break-in. Phyllidia hadn't even allowed herself to become flustered when the subject of why the chains had been so available had come up; her conscious was clear and she felt no reason to blush at the suggestive comments an officer had muttered to one of his mates.

After the police had left with their prisoner, Phyllidia tried to give the poor beast treatment for the bleeding wound on its left side. While not being at all hostile to her, it kept on avoiding her efforts to examine the wound, as if it was very anxious not to have her get her fingers bloody. At last she gave up her efforts; Remus would no doubt be able to handle his pet when he showed up. Until then she would just give it some water and food, and stay around until he showed up and she could explain the mess his house was in.

While she waited, and slowly got drowsy, she tried to place exactly what kind of dog Remus was keeping. She could swear, except for the size, that it most resembled the wolves she had seen at the Woburn Safari Park when her parents had taken her there on a family holiday drive. Not quite, but close; ridiculous of course. Remus would never do something so dangerous and illegal. He was an absolute darling, but entirely too conventional. With that thought she fell asleep, comforted by the protective mass of the dog curled up at the side of the couch she was resting on.

?

She woke as dawn was breaking, to the sounds of agonized moans. Looking around dazedly she managed to catch the last stages of Remus Lupin's transformation from beast to man. There he was, lying on his uninjured side, completely naked. Phyllidia didn't object, had never objected, to his nudity. It was the changing shape of his head, limbs and other parts, and the uncanny disappearance of masses of fur that offended her sense of reality. She really, _really_, wanted to reject the evidence of her own eyes. As an attorney she was well-schooled on the unreliability of eyewitnesses. She had never expected to become one of those delusional people herself. As Remus rose, hand clenched to the oozing wound in his flank, he gave a small apologetic grin as he made his way to bathroom and his medical supplies. She followed, her mental processes slowly getting up to speed, until she was able to come out with her most important questions, statements and arguments: "You? Dog? How? Can't be! Tell!"

Lupin was always a bit grouchy after his transformation, at least until some breakfast and a few cups of strong coffee were in his system. So his reply wasn't as understanding and sympathetic as it might have been under other conditions: "Yes. Wolf. Magic. Possible. That will… take a little while."

Later, after she had helped him bind up his uncannily swift-healing wound and helped getting breakfast cooked and eaten, he gave her the longer version of his answers. Even with a demonstration with his wand she was still stuck pretty much in the monosyllabic level of communication, though her keenly trained legal mind was managing to whirl along at a fierce pace.

Huge conspiracies, secret wars, an entire society hidden like a raisin in the cake of British (no, World!) society. It was an awful lot to take in during the hour she had before she had to get back (by cab; her car was still in the ditch) to carry on her prosecution of the "Moriarty of our time." She was rather fond of that description of her legal prey. Having just escaped from one of his minions, she was not going to weaken her prosecution of that unfortunate perp, or give him a less pejorative label. Her glee and savagery at breaking down his alibi that day was actually frightening to the accused's legal representatives. By the end of the day not only had they given up all hope of securing a hung jury (an acquittal was unthinkable), but they admitted privately that they wanted to vote for their client's conviction themselves.

When she left the court that day the dangerous Mr. Romanescu was there in her newly repaired auto to pick her up. While he had never done anything more than a little playful flirting with her, the man had cut a wide swath through the better-looking and more adventurous of her social circle. Now he was chatting with her calmly while he drove her back to Remus' place. She couldn't quite get up the nerve to ask him if he had ever noticed anything unusual about his friend. Or if there was anything… unusual… about himself. His many successes (less romantic than merely erotic) were a little suggestive, when looked upon with some of the new information in her possession. In this she did him wrong; Sirius Black had never needed spell or potion to succeed with the ladies, and Cesar Romanescu was no different.

Remus was gone when they got to his house, leaving a note that he would be back soon, and was bringing 'H.T.' Phyllidia had no idea who H.T. was, but noticed that Cesar seemed a bit surprised at the turn of events. Evidently H.T. was some high-mucky-muck among the magically inclined she speculated. She did notice that not only had her car run better on the drive up than it had in months, but that the house; including the broken pottery from her fight last night, had no signs of anything damaging having occurred there. As they wandered back into the kitchen to start supper (Phyllidia had an aversion, especially when nervous, to doing nothing with her hands) she managed to ask if Cesar had ever noticed Remus being reluctant to have visitors over on some evenings.

"Oh, the werewolf thing you mean."

That response certainly answered a whole raft of questions efficiently, though it stimulated at least as many more that needed to be dealt with.

?

When Remus pulled up H.T. turned out to be a gawky, cute boy with a huge grin. He looked Phyllidia over carefully, gave a nod, and offered her his hand to shake. She took it, and gave an adult to adult handshake. He just seemed the type of person you did that with. He was introduced as a relative of a sort, the exact connection left vague. At first she kept on trying to see if he was some short Merlin under an illusion, or perhaps someone of indefinite age kept young by spells and unthinkable sacrifices and ceremonies. No, he was just a lively boy with a shock of black hair and greenish eyes. Her opinion of Remus (already high) went up on meeting Harry Timmons. How better to make her comfortable with the Wizarding World than show her that the wizards (and evidently witches) were just ordinary, decent people with swell kids?

It turned out they had schools also, which Harry was going back to the premier one in Britain in a week or so. The reason he was there (at least officially) was that he had wanted to meet her ever since Remus had started getting serious about her, and once back at school it would be hard for him to get a free day to come on down from Scotland for visiting. For Remus and her to go up there to meet him would have required her to be officially knowledgeable about the Wizarding World. It was at this point that she began to really understand what deep and dangerous waters she was entering.

Evidently, Remus was a Private Investigator (though without his regular employees knowing about it) for the Wizards also. Doing jobs their police couldn't (often for political reasons) do, he had built up a tolerance among the more practical wizards (and witches) despite being part of a despised minority. Phyllidia flushed with heat at that knowledge; Remus was… well, not without his flaws, but still he had about as many positive qualities as she could think up at the moment. To look down on him because of he was just a victim of a disease was immoral!

Harry laid out the situation of his "sort of a relative":

"But you see, Ms Barnes, werewolfism… werewolfdom…. whatever is a bad thing, and most of those that have it don't have Mr. Lupin's self-control and clear head. He figured out it was all the terrible confusion and pain of the change that makes a 'were' nasty tempered and snappy at everything they see. And since everyone "knows" how bad werewolves are, they sort of just go along with what they've learned was expected of them. Or at least the ones you hear about; I expect that ones like Mr. Lupin, who never hurt people don't catch much public attention, and sort of get ignored.

"Mr. Lupin has written to the medical journal and all, but they never wrote back or sent someone to give him a look-see. Ain't fair… but after three goes at trying to find someone who would study him, or get the word out, Mr. Lupin realized that it just wasn't going to happen. Even the **Quibbler** wouldn't print an article about self-controlled Werewolfs… wolves. And if they won't, there's nobody that will listen!

"There is some stuff 'weres' can get to keep their minds when they change, but it's pretty expensive and since most of them can't get a job they mostly can't afford it. Mr. Lupin just takes some tranquil stuff, and he taught himself more control than most can handle. He says he can't think human, but if he tries he can be pretty mellow for a wolf," Harry finished off with a couple of deep breaths.

"Good summing up, Harry," said Cesar.

"And nobody normal knows about real magic?" Phyllidia asked.

"Well, the Prime Minister is always briefed, and I know that there are a few in the Home Office and Police that have an unofficial knowledge about how things are, at least a little. Wizards have an International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, and I think Muggle, that is non-magical, governments, usually have secret regulations about that sort of thing on their end also," Remus, being most experienced with this sort of thing, finished off.

"Well, now I know. What are you going to do with me? Am I a criminal, or are you? Do I get sent to some dungeon somewhere?" At Phyllidia reaching this part Cesar gave an uncontrollable shudder.

Remus added, using his best professorial voice, "There are procedures, legal under some secret provisions of the Muggle 'Defense of the Realm Act of 1906' that allow your memory to be modified to make you forget.

"Yes, though, we're criminals. We should have turned you in to the Obliviators as soon as you saw Remus change, much less when he told you the whole story. Sentimental boy that he is he has certain, what do you call them? Yes, moral objections to doing that." Cesar smiled at that; Phyllidia got the impression of one brother being very proud of another.

"I take it there is a familial exception to these regulations?" Phyllidia asked.

Remus nodded.

Harry asked, "So, you gonna?"

"I've always fancied June."

"The last week, so Harry can be ring-bearer?" Remus asked.

Phyllidia nodded. There would be enough time for planning a proper wedding. That also meant she could ditch her birth-control pills around about the beginning of April, and not have much trouble with her wedding dress, if they got lucky. She was feeling very lucky.


	10. Chapter 10

I do not own, or receive any benefit from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 10: Mistress of Tides.

By Larry Huss

At the start of his third year at Hogwarts, Harry Timmons was resolved to make this one the best yet. As he had stood on the platform, waiting to get on the train, he had been pondering on whether to try any more experiments in pre-sorting bonding on the incoming class for the year. Before he could reach a decision, the Weasley clan came through the barrier, with a new addition to the contingent going up to school. Harry, as was only polite, waved hello to them. When Fred and George (whichever was which) had come over, pretty much dragging a small, red haired girl, Harry was pleased but a bit surprised.

"Harry my lad, here is our well beloved, " four eyebrows went up at that statement, and one feminine scowl became deeper, "sister Ginny. Mum is all for her not being thrown in at the deep end on the trip up; something about Ron saying it was nearly the death of him last year may have set her off. So we're supposed to ensure Ginny's safe and cheerful arrival at dear old Hogwarts. As we have many important things to do, debts to collect, and amusements to set up in the next few hours we immediately knew that _you_, as someone who owes us two favors… for reasons we are too discrete to mention… _you _would be delighted to be her chaperone and native guide, while we pursue our affairs."

No matter how hard he bargained Harry couldn't get them to agree that this was a two-favor job. Miss Weasley was not impressed by this bargaining over how difficult a task it was going to be. Her opinion was that she could handle that well enough on her own. She slowly snuck her hand into a pocket of her robe, the one that had her wand in it. Before she could pull it out again that irritating Harry fellow grabbed her arm and shook his head slowly.

"The train's fine for practice; it's considered part of the school while it's doing the run up. But the platform is still a forbidden zone, like a home, except there are more eyes to get you in trouble. Better wait a few minutes before doing any casting."

Her brothers, who hadn't noticed her preparations to hex them in a fierce, familial way, sighed with relief. They had been right; Timmons was man enough for the job of keeping Ginny from getting expelled or arrested while still on the trip up. They hurried away to do important things, collect debts, and set up amusements, before their Hufflepuff friend thought better of the bargain. As they practically ran down the platform to a car likely to be filled with Gryffindors they passed a small, blond, confused girl, standing alone. Taking pity on a neighbor they pointed her in the right direction to meet up with the only person she was likely to know in the noisy throng, and then made sure to disappear into the masses of the public before Ginny's famous temper reached its rather low boiling point.

For Harry the trip to Hogwarts this year was the most exhausting of his memory (out of a total of five: three year starts and two up after Yule Holidays). Getting Miss Weasley up into the train, and getting her into his compartment to sit down had been like running while carrying a hot cauldron in his bare hands; juggling it back and forth to keep things from scorching him, but not daring to let it fall. Once he had her rebelliously seated, he had welcomed the forlorn little Lovegood girl, who had poked her head into the compartment. He could see that the two knew each other, so he snagged her to sit besides Ginny. That way they spent at least the next few minutes introducing themselves to the others in the compartment, and catching up with each other about mutual acquaintances.

By the time they were out of the city things had gotten better. They were, naturally, seated with a good bit of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, and Weasley was soon jabbering away with the others about everything from strategies to the best equipment for each position. She didn't exactly calm down, but switched from resentment to an excited realization that she would finally be getting closer to having a chance to play the game that was everything in the Wizarding sporting world. When CD (the Hufflepuff Seeker, naturally) popped his head in to say hello she was properly impressed. Evidently her brothers had told her about his talent. Being tall, handsome, and with more personality than was safe for an unmarried man, she started up a little crush on him then and there. True, she had been playing "Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley" games for years back home, but here was someone who _in the flesh_ seemed every bit as wonderful as she had always imagined Potter to be.

By the time the tea cart had come and gone, the conversation had become all Quidditch and Lovegood was obviously feeling left out. Harry noticed it, and took her into the corridor to walk her up and down the train for a while, asking her questions and listening to her sometimes odd replies, as well as trying to answer some of her own distinctive questions. Some of them were not just off the wall, they were outdoors and wandering free and wild. He thought it was especially interesting that she had spent time in the British Columbia Sasquatch Reserve, and had seen how Jackalopes were faked. By the time her feet were getting tired, and he brought her back to sit down, she was much happier. She was certain she was going to be sorted into Ravenclaw, like her mother had been, and was going to… be the usual assortment of things a young witch wanted. Be a powerful witch, world traveler, discoverer of hidden mysteries, mother and much, much, more.

The evening's Sorting was enjoyable for Harry. Miss Weasley was sent to Gryffindor, to the Twins' delight and Ron's irritation. Lovegood went to Ravenclaw, skipping over to their tables with a huge smile on her face. Hufflepuff got a crew, that if perhaps a bit weedy at the moment, Harry was sure he could help whip into shape. The best was that a message was there for him and another third year; it said that they would be part of the experimental Monitoring Program for the coming semester. During First Year double potions for the Slytherins and Gryffindors they would be keeping an eye on the students, and preventing them from doing any obvious insanely dangerous things. Evidently Professor Snape had had a hand in writing the message. In any case, the Monitors' schedules were arranged to allow this without compromising their other classes, and they would be earning three points per session as they performed their duties. Slytherin would be providing the Monitors for the joint 'Puff/'Claw sessions. The Second Year sessions would be covered by Ravenclaws and Gryffindors of the Forth Year.

The fact that Harry had been informed that he would be a starting Chaser this year augmented his happy mood. Feeling the urge to spread some joy, he wandered over to the 'Gryff table and put a word in the Twin's ears.

On the trip up to the Tower they went over to their youngest sibling and told her that on Timmons's recommendation they were going to see if they had enough pull with Wood to get her to practice with the Team this year: be a sort of unofficial Reserve player. She thanked them demurely, while in her head fireworks were going off and many bells rang in celebration.

It evidently hadn't been the Twins who had snuck the gag going-away gift into her school stuff; probably Ron then. Giving her a beat up old empty diary, as if she was some homesick little girl who would be moping around all depressed and would need at least one sympathetic place to express her feelings. With all that was going to be happening (she'd be practicing with the Team!) she'd have no time to blubber into a diary. As a symbol of her brand new life she would… she would… give it to someone she was sure was going to be an isolated fish out of water. Because that was the type of generous person she was; always helping the socially inept deal with their inadequacies. While Ginny Weasley was going to be practicing (and maybe playing?) with the Team!

?

Lupin was glad that Phyllidia, and her social posse, had taken over all the arrangements for the forthcoming Muggle wedding. As it would be her second she was being relatively modest about its size; a mere three hundred guests and a garden party reception without a sit-down dinner attached. A family friendly/intimate sort of occasion. The Wizarding marriage contract would be done in fifteen minutes (though many families made a much bigger to-do about it) down at the Ministry. Lupin was inviting about a hundred of the guests coming to the Muggle bash; he was actually surprised that there were that many people he felt close enough to actually ask. Fortunately, most of them were Muggles, and the Wizards were usually those that were safe to have around the non-magical; Aurors and the like. Frankly, the person most likely to disrupt the wedding was his employee, Walter Evans. Still, a wedding party without at least one obnoxious drunk was hardly a wedding party at all, and it wouldn't do to invite all the others and leave Evans out.

Through Moody he had a good idea where Peter was (the holding cells under the Ministry), and what he was doing (singing like a bird). Evidently Snape actually _had_ been a Death Eater (Dark Mark and all), but Dumbledore had vouched for him as a double agent and gotten him off. The Weasleys hadn't been in on Peter's disguise, though a few important figures in the Wizarding community were getting quietly put under surveillance due to Peter's revelations. The Rat's capture at Hogwarts had ended up rebounding to Dumbledore's advantage, and the man was that much more unassailable as the hero of the Wizarding World, surpassed only by the mythical Harry Potter. Harry Timmons had written a little poem of appreciation for the wonders Potter had given them all, for a writing contest **The Daily Prophet **had run at the end of the last summer. It had received Honorable Mention in the Junior Division. He had gotten a good case of the giggles at that, when he had received his certificate.

Cesar had completed most of his preparations for his departure from all vestiges of the Black family. Most of the properties were already liquidated and the funds siphoned off; all that remained was leaving enough for a decent start-up for Andromeda to be the next Lady Black, and fixing up the major property left (12 Grimmauld Place) so that she could either move in or sell it at her discretion. Doing all the repairs and cleaning was laborious enough; making sure that there were no unpleasant surprises for Cousin Andy when she took the place over was more exhausting and interesting. Lupin helped him whenever possible.

Cleaning out the Library, and the _Library_ behind the Library was actually fun. Some books Cesar would be taking with him, some were to be left, and some were being anonymously sent to the Aurors for disposal. Going through the rest of the house, finding the numerous hiding places with their occasional grisly holdings, added a note of adventure to what would otherwise have been just scut work.

It was while doing this, and going through a desk in his brother's old room, that Cesar came across some notes stashed in a hidden drawer. Reading them as a form of penance for having failed to save his brother from becoming a Death Eater, Cesar came away confused. The papers seemed to indicate that Regulus had actually become disgusted with them on his own, and stolen something of value from their chief. What exactly was unclear; how it was dealt with wasn't included. Against his better judgment he summoned his rebellious House-Elf and interrogated it, with Remus assisting.

Lupin found it interesting that the Elf, instead of just screaming, muttering, and insulting them both (as usual) became instead evasive about the whole affair. If it had denied any knowledge there would be nothing more to do, the fact that there was evasion meant the Elf knew something, and was reluctant to talk about it. After Cesar's yelling and threatening proved (as usual) not too helpful Lupin took a different tack.

"Of course, the Young Master told you to be quiet about this whole affair."

The Elf gave a sigh of relief. At least someone here knew how these things had to be done.

"The Young Master did something very foolish, but brave. Something that would bring honor to the Blacks when it was revealed at the proper time," Lupin continued.

Kreacher muttered, "Still not safe it's not. Young Master trusted Kreacher, last time anyone around here really ever did," the Elf gave Cesar a resentful glare, "them shiny faces still running around. They wander by, from time to time. It calls out to them, see."

"Ask him to get four or five butterbeers, will you Sirius? All this dust we've been stirring up is getting in our throats."

After the Elf had gone to get some cold and frosty bottles, Lupin clued in his friend why he had used the forbidden first name, and how Cesar should follow his lead. When Kreacher came back a few moments later the interview started up again, with the current Lord Black being a nasty git and the werewolf being reasonable and admiring of the noble family Black, and all its servants. From there it wasn't too hard to getting the Elf to accept one bottle, just to cut the dust as he talked. A second bottle went down easier, and eventually the fact was brought up that Regulus had wanted "it" destroyed, but hadn't known how to do it, and that Kreacher was obeying the Young Master's last commands to keep "it" hidden until it could be properly dealt with. By the third bottle Kreacher was just short of singing songs, and remarked he hadn't felt this good in years. The suggestion that the Young Master's command could be obeyed by turning "it" over to the current Lord Black went over well with the tipsy Elf, and soon Cesar held a locket with an engraved green stone on the front.

It wouldn't open, it positively reeked of power, and to Lupin it had the same "feel" as Harry's scar had had before the spell existing in it was removed. Now that he thought of it, there was a certain dead Hogwarts Professor who had give off similar vibrations also. Lupin realized that the War that had claimed so many of his friends had never really ended; it had just entered a different phase.

?

For Minerva McGonagall the school year had started out well enough. Another Weasley was sorted into Gryffindor (would they ever run out of them?) to ensure that the color red stayed in the House. Severus had turned out to be much calmer this year; the Monitor Program meant that he didn't have to try to have eyes in the back of his head during Double Potions classes. Lockhart was a complete waste of time, but by now they were used to that in DADA. Thanks to some clever Bludger work by the Weasley Twins Gryffindor had squeaked out a victory over Slytherin, and they had so far managed not to get caught at any of their pranks, losing points for their House.

Then the deep fall and early winter had come, and things began to come apart. There was the Great Cornish Pixie Episode. Then the rout of Ravenclaw by Hufflepuff, with Diggory catching the Snitch and Timmons (who should have been _hers_) running the Chasers and scoring enough goals to put the 'Puffs far ahead for this year's Cup. Additionally there was Finch's cat getting petrified, and all those horrid bits of graffiti that had started things turning toward a definitely grim mood. Now the student rumor mill was grinding out absurdities about "the Heir of Slytherin" having entered the school, and purging all those not of Pure Blood.

Then there was that horrid, cursed, package being delivered to her. To be fair, the warnings on it were clear, direct, and accurate; whoever had sent it hadn't been trying to harm her. Still, even Albus admitted that he'd never seen anything quite so menacing in its nature, and he had destroyed it without calling in the Unspeakables; they might have become ensnared by the powerful persuasion spells that were layered on to protect the evil entity at the heart of the artifact. It was that experience that had made him come around to working up lists for a new birth of the Order. He still hadn't gone along with her suggestion that they hire Lupin to track down who had sent them the package. Whoever it was must know a good bit more of what was going on, and be worth sharing information with.

Now there was poor little Miss Weasley lying petrified in the Infirmary, a pathetic thing to see. Minerva was sure that there was more trouble coming on that front. Molly Weasley was a force not to be ignored when her good nature was offended.

Currently there was the report on her desk that the Dueling Club had just had its first meeting, with Draco Malfoy going against instructions and conjuring up a dangerous snake, and Lockhart funking out on protecting the students. Luckily Severus had been there to sort things out. Only two hundred years ago the means to take care of someone like Lockhart would have been at hand, a simple challenge to the death. Now in this effete age you can hardly kill anyone legally!

?

"Help us, Harry Timmons, you're our only hope!" Padma exclaimed, kneeling in front of the aforementioned youth, clasping her hands together.

In a far less dramatic tone her constant companion, Hermione Granger, sketched in some of the more lurid details. "What Padma means is we found the girl, starkers under her robe, wandering into the Common Room, with her hands and mouth all sticky with blood, and covered with feathers. That's plain not safe!"

"A little light on the sanity charts also, 'Mione. And now there aren't any omelets for breakfast, the chicken coops being emptied, and we must all suffer for the little maniac's departure from good manners. Oh, and proper nutrition too, evidently."

"It's the Salmonella, Padma."

"What do fish have to do with anything? We're talking about every hen and rooster in Hogwarts being ripped limb from drumstick. If she keeps on doing things like this we won't be able to protect her, or keeping her from losing us points."

"Good, now we're focused on important things again!"

Harry settled in to listen as Team Cute (as he privately called them) began giving him a more coherent run down of the times and tribulations of Luna Lovegood. They had another name in the school, but only among Parvati Patil's closest friends: The Brilliant Bitches. Parvati hadn't taken too well to her sister being sorted into a different house, and then adjusting to it with blinding speed and awesome success. Currently, Padma and Hermione were hogging every academic honor for their Year, and were widely acknowledged to be likely to be doing so during the remainder of their time at Hogwarts.

They had even been making friends in Slytherin, doing illustrated genealogies on commission of all the most prominent families. Even Draco Malfoy had become halfway civil to the Mudblood who had so much knowledge about Wizarding families and traditions. For a birthday present for his grandmother Neville Longbottom had them do an especially pretty one of the Longbottoms (Augusta was proud of the family she had married into). It turned out that Nev was descended from not only Macbeth, but through two lines of descent could count both Attila the Hun and Vlad Tepes as direct ancestors. Odd to think how the rather sweet-tempered Longbottom could have such an ancestry.

Padma continued their tale of woe. "Whenever we try to follow her too close, she always seems to know. We've talked to Professor Flitwick, and he's spotted a marking spell at the House door; anyone going through it is detectable to the right spell. He hasn't figured out how to get around it yet; and until he does we thought we might get some help from someone who hasn't been through the Ravenclaw Tower Common Room for the last few months. You haven't been sneaking around trying to get into the girl's dorms, have you Lieutenant?"

"Even Hufflepuffs know the rumors of how well the Ravenclaw girls protect their modesty and privacy," Timmons replied, "so I've been working on a way _around_ your security spells, haven't got there yet. The Weasley Twins' disaster of last year got stuck in my mind as a good example of what _not_ to do if you want to do a Peeping Tom on Ravenclaw. Or at least be one that survives into your twilight years. So, no, I haven't been into the 'Claw Commons, or past the door."

"Not very enterprising of you, Lieutenant," Patil complained.

"We're only Second Years, Padma. We wouldn't want him to succeed until we're at least Fifths." Granger was evidently continuing on with some long standing, private, conversation with Patil. Harry realized he still had much to learn about women.

"Anyway, Lieutenant, we thought there was a real need for someone foolhardy and ignorant enough to actual follow her, and risk being torn limb from drumstick-" Evidently Padma was really enjoying that phrase. "-and let us know where she's going."

Granger concluded, "So we thought of you. Anyone who would try to get a bunch of Firsts and Seconds to stand up to a Mountain Troll must be pretty reckless. You're just the type to be wandering around after curfew, and as we never hear of you being caught, you must be pretty good at it."

"'Mione and me made these," Patil said, holding up two poker chip sized disks. "If you knock one on something hard the other gives a flash and vibrates for a moment. We'll give you a flash when we see her leaving the Tower; get you alert to follow her. She usually seems to head east, so if you hide yourself somewhere down that way you can wait 'till she passes and then trail her. Once we know where she's going we'll be able to figure out what she's doing there. Even if we have to bring a Professor in to help us."

"Why would she have such a down on chickens? Why kill them all? Do you think she's the Heir of Slytherin? How high up the walls was the writing near the various petrifieds? Were they within her reach? Have you heard any weird sounds coming from the walls, either slithering or voices? How does she get along with her room mates? How long has this weird stuff been going on? Does she get into fights, and does she use any special spells when she's nervous?" Harry realized he wasn't doing his client interview up to standards of R. Lupin, Private Investigations, LLC. Still, he thought he was covering all the important points. Wait, there was one that he was completely ignoring! "What's in it for me?"

Despite his inability to get them to agree to anything firmer than a promise of unspecified social advantages at a later date they finally wore him down into accepting the commission. Well, they were Team Cute after all, and their relay badgering and teasing finally beat his attempts at being hard-headed.

He had slowly put at least some of what the girls had told him into proper order while he had consulted with experts over the next week, and had formed a plan of operations. That was why he was waiting in an alcove to the west of the entrance to the Ravenclaw Tower; there was no way he was going to rely on Lovegood being too oblivious to notice him as she went right by.

The graffiti had been within her reach, but that of course meant that almost anyone in the school could have done it also. Their genealogical researches had pretty much cleared her from being a closer relation to Salazar Slytherin than at least half of Wizarding Britain, unless there had been hanky-panky in recent generations. Yes, there was something odd about the sounds the plumbing made at certain times and at certain points. Her roommates had been bullying her unmercifully. Team Cute had helped her a little, until she no longer needed any protection. Suddenly, the others in the dorm room had started coming down with rather unpleasant rashes and the like, which seemed to have caused the bullying to stop. Pomfrey was having trouble clearing the girls' skin up. Nothing provable though.

Weasley had been petrified; there must be something important there. Petrified, petrified. He'd seen something about petrifying once. What was it? Yes, thank you, Ray Harryhausen. And people say that the telly rots your mind! (1)

At that point Harry felt the disk in his robe pocket start to vibrate, and cast the silencing spell on himself that he'd gotten out of an the old edition of **the Auror's Handbook **that had been thrown in with the selection of past years' DADA texts Cesar had helped him get that Summer. The door for the Tower opened a crack, and a small girl slipped out into the corridor going east. She seemed to have a second shadow that no light source could explain. Harry didn't like that.

?

Two days after he had sent Harry his best advice on how to handle the Hogwarts' Horror (Lupin had to feel it was all overblown, after all, would Dumbledore _really_ allow students to be petrified all over the school?) the disappearance of the youngest child of one of the wealthiest men in France had been international news for twelve hours. Lupin had thought nothing of it; it wasn't as if they were short of good coppers over there, after all. Then nothing was said about finding the child or the kidnappers for the next two days. It wasn't his business, but to the extent Lupin had it on his mind that was a very bad sign. If this sort of thing wasn't resolved quickly, it often meant it wouldn't be resolved happily. The call to come down there, naming his own price, had come as a surprise. But Lupin had found out that Appolon DeCroix was in charge of the police task-force down there, and he couldn't resist at least getting a chance to see an old master at work. So he got himself hit with the first Language Spell that he could locate and headed off to see if he could contribute.

Getting a colder-than-ice-shoulder from the lower ranks of the police when he reached the 19th century mansion by chartered jet (ah, expense accounts!), he was gratified that DeCroix allowed him to wander about the place freely and listen to the mini-cassettes from the telephone answering machines that the kidnappers were using to present their demands and instructions. Messages that the police had not been able to even begin to get a trace on, or even hear when the calls had come in. A parlour maid brought him tea after a bit, with the head maid checking up afterwards that he didn't make off with the tea spoon. The Magnate's Secretary bustled around fussily, and other, unnamed, domestic servants scurried and whispered in the background. After three hours of going through the messages the anomaly of the date/time absence struck him. His time talking with Bill Davies back at the office on how to use the various electronic gadgets he had to deal with was paying fruit. There were no times indicated, so… obviously… When he appeared ready to make a remark to that effect DeCroix gave his head a small, but definite shake. Then the old man led Lupin up to the boy's room for a little private conversation.

The room was large; instead of the usual sports-orientated paraphernalia he had expected to see there were various art supplies and easels, with a series of a view of an unfamiliar mountain at various times of day. Lupin broke the silence:

"The Secretary."

"Of course, but we would do better to catch him actually doing the palming. After all, it is only to be expected that his fingerprints be on the tapes."

"All very fine, but where is the boy? I'm not certain that there are any accomplices; the delays in arranging the money transfer seem to say that this is all spur-of-the-moment, and the criminal got in before he realized he didn't know how to get out. So, if he's alive, where is the boy?"

For several moments neither had anything to say, and their eyes idly wandered around the room. Suddenly they looked at each other.

They gazed out of the window, seeing nothing that looked quite like the paintings. At least, not from _this_ perspective.

"I doubt if there is more than a ten percent chance the child is still alive, really," Lupin commented.

DeCroix countered with, "Still the best idea so far. I'll have a local lad go with you to find the spot where the boy paints. Perhaps something there will suggest itself. If only that idiot hadn't involved himself we would have gone right to a proper search to start with! Take some supplies; before the family called in the police they had the immediate area looked at."

?

Later that evening, Remus Lupin began gingerly climbing down by rope into a crevasse in a mountain in the French Pyrenees, toward an innocent victim. The nine year old boy was wedged in a narrow part of a crack in the mountain, and probably had been so for the four days he had been missing. In the dim light Lupin could see unpleasant bulges under the boy's skin, probable evidence of broken bones. Lupin shouted upwards, to where a local policeman peered down over the edge.

"Go back to the house and get more help, a team experienced in mountain rescue and a good medical team too. I think he's still breathing, but I'm afraid to move him myself. Hurry!"

Lupin's spell-learned French was evidently up to the task, despite having given him an accent better suited to 17th century Normandy than 20th century Hautes-Pyrenees. The Copper set off at a run. The Chief had been right again. This odd English private eye had been worth not kicking off of the case; they hadn't found the kidnappers yet, but it looked like they might be able to save the child.

With his observer gone Lupin was free to use his full strength, and went down at a frightening speed. He had meant it about needing an extraction team, though. When someone was as badly injured as this kid was the risk of moving him the wrong way was too great for Lupin to want to assume.

When he had reached the child Lupin made a loop in the rope as a footrest, and reached into the bag he had strapped over his chest and pulled out a bottle of water. If he was right the kid had been stuck here for all the time the drama had been playing out back at the family's mansion. Hydrate the patient first, and then go for other measures in cases of exposure old Pomfrey had once told him; well, he'd try for it here. Supporting the child's head gently Lupin dribbled water into his mouth. After a few seconds the child began to swallow a little bit of it. Going on for a few moments more this way and the child's breathing became a little better. Then checking upwards to make sure that no one else had got there yet Lupin reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a Healing Potion. It wouldn't help the boy nearly as much as it would a wizard with a proper magical core, but it certainly would do _some _good, at least until regular Muggle medical aid came.

While he waited Lupin edged himself so that the boy couldn't slip any further down; kept on giving him water, and thought about how he had gotten from a nice office in a London suburb to a crack in a Pyrenees mountain.

Holding the injured child, and casting a warming charm on him, Lupin waited for help to arrive. He hoped that they would be soon, otherwise he would have to try his rusty and never expert magical healing talents; probably not the best possible idea for a person in such a weakened condition as the child.

Lupin hoped that Harry wasn't going to be having as bad an evening as he was likely to; in a tight place and in the dark.

Author's Notes:

"Clash of the Titans" 1981, MGM. Produced (with special effects) by Ray Harryhausen. A regular visitor from the local video store to the Anderson residence.

Again, I'd like to thank Nathan for his proofing, and on this chapter in particular for his helping straighten out sequencing.


	11. Chapter 11

I do not own, or receive any benefits from the Harry Potter Benefits.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 11: Vanities Virtue.

By Larry Huss

Take a small youth, put him in a long dark robe, and have him put a silencing spell on his sneakers. If he is trailing an unsuspecting young girl and her menacingly unnatural extra shadow through a series of dark and twisty corridors, down ramps and stairs that weren't there all the time, and at a reasonable distance he is very unlikely to be detected. Sure, if the extra shadow is the semi-animate shade of a hugely powerful wizard there might be some danger of being spotted, especially if it was in the Muggle world, where to the trained senses magic stands out like a torch. But in the magic-soaked halls of Hogwarts, detecting something as mild and gentle as what Harry Timmons was using would have required a great deal of attention and a bit of good luck. As it was the shadow had enough to do just steering the strong-minded girl in the proper direction, and keeping her questioning nature from coming to the surface. One might be forgiven (by the pathologically fair-minded) for not engaging in all due diligence under the circumstances. Lovegood talking in a dreamy way while another voice was mumbling in a high-pitched series of hisses as the pair went along might have been considered a bit much, though.

Harry Timmons didn't like this at all. Once he could have done the same, but when the spell with a personality had been driven out of him years ago he had ceased to be able to converse in Parseltongue. One of the things he had done on coming to Hogwarts had been to find out if he could regain that talent, or maybe learn another animal language. The results of his researches had not been reassuring. Parseltongue was considered a sign of pure evilness in the user, Harry had become glad that he had lost that ability when the curse had left him; it made things a lot easier than having to conceal the ability. Now Luna Lovegood seemed to have it, or rather something with a very different voice using her was versed in the language of snakes. It confirmed some of his recent conclusions, and that was scary too. It didn't help that he had just detected that_ he_ was being followed by someone who was pretty soft-footed him (her?) self. When Luna passed around a corner leading to a stretch of corridor without stairs or other obvious turn-offs, Harry dropped back a few paces and turned to face his trailer, wand out. Neville Longbottom hopped backwards with a small "Eep!"

Harry waved Neville to go back to the dorm. Neville shook his head, his features set with childish stubbornness. "I don't have _time_ for this!" Harry thought to himself, and put his finger to his lips in the international sign of silence. Then, motioning the boy to stay behind him, he continued his stalking of the wild Lovegood. He had a very good idea of why Neville was out following him. There was this whole weird "Heir of Slytherin" thing keeping the gossip network of the school busy; the assumption being that the Heir was responsible for the graffiti on the walls near where the petrified people (and cat) were found. Neville had been carrying around a crush on Ginny Weasley, and evidently when he noticed Harry slipping out (as he often did in any case, for the fun of it) he was brave enough to follow a suspected Heir to find out what was what, and to see if there was anything he could do to help his heart-throb. Harry thought it very romantic, but very dumb. When they got back to the Hufflepuff Commons he planned to tear a stripe off of Neville for general foolishness; now wasn't the time for that, though.

Pausing only to cast the silence spell on Neville, Harry turned and quickly went around the corner again to find… emptiness before him. There was just the dull clunking sound of a door shutting itself. Putting on some speed Harry (and Neville) came to the only possible visible door, the entrance to Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom. Faintly, from inside, they could hear three voices. One was Lovegood's, one was an unidentified female voice, and the last was the hissing at a far greater volume. Harry weighed the various factors against each other: the sanctity of a girl's bathroom (even if it was one usually unused), versus discovering a dangerous conspiracy against the safety of all the students of Hogwarts, versus it all being something else completely and him looking like a complete fool for bursting in. With a sigh he told Neville to back him up, using Flippendo (1) if needed. Setting his shoulders and taking a deep breath, Harry burst into the lavatory.

The good part was that Lovegood was completely and decently dressed, and was just standing there with an open book in her hands talking calmly to the ghost of a teenage girl. The bad part was a second ghost, one that was of a teenage boy speaking in Parseltongue, much darker and more solid than the girl-ghost. The worst part was that the wall behind the sinks, mirrors and all, was moving backwards to open a hole in the floor. Coming up through that hole was yard after yard of barrel-thick snake, more than big enough to think a Third Year was just the right diameter for a late night snack. In the brief seconds that Harry stood there indecisive, the snake (a Basilisk, just as he had figured out while waiting for Lovegood to come out of her Tower) spotted him and made a predator's quick decision.

It was hungry, centuries hungry, and the few prey it had found in the corridors the last few months had been taken by its power before it could get them down its throat. In fact, it hadn't even bothered swallowing them; petrified things took forever to digest and made it feel lethargic for decades. This time it was going to have a meal (even if a bit small) that was properly alive and kicking as it went down the gullet! Accordingly, it slid a thick, dark nictitating membrane (2) across its eyes; now if the prey looked directly into its eyes they'd only be slowed up a little, rather than become the consistency of granite.

Several things happened in the next three seconds. Harry, seeing the snake set itself to strike, dived further into the room as the fastest move he could make. He passed through the boy-ghost (feeling the usual clammy cold that those interpenetrations always had) as the head of the snake missed him by _this_ much. The snake bumped into the wall next to the door and turned its head in pursuit, even though its body was still blocking the closing of the entrance to the lower levels. The boy-ghost, who had been laughing in Parseltongue, screeched in discomfort as the unpleasant feeling of something so nasty and hot as a living person went through his space. Luna Lovegood, seeing a boy jumping into a girl's bathroom (even if not being quite in possession of herself) said something naughty and threw something at the boy. It happened to be the book she had had in her hands. Myrtle the ghost, feeling a strong sense of déjà-vu, flew up and over one of partitions of the toilet stalls, then dived into the pipes and went far, far, away. After he saw the snake start to pursue Harry Timmons, Neville Longbottom stepped into the room (the snake, with its vision reduced due to the protective membrane it had been using hadn't seen Neville in the dark corridor outside) and thought that a Flippendo really wasn't going to do the trick this time.

Seeing something coming at him from the corner of his eye Harry did what any good Chaser would do, he caught it as he began to squirm under the door of one of the toilet stalls. It was locked (as were all of them in the bathroom) by Peeves at Myrtle's (Moaning Myrtle, one of the more recent ghosts of Hogwarts) request. Otherwise there would have every day been an absolute _stream_ of girls coming in to use the place and making the most unpleasant odors; and it _was_ Myrtle's home after all!

Harry managed to get all the way in before he saw the tip of the snake's nose begin to wedge itself under the door, and begin to splinter the wood as it pushed itself further into the stall. He leaped up onto the seat and yelled out, hopefully to a Longbottom who had followed him into the bathroom.

"I need a mirror! A mirror!"

Luna Lovegood muttered to herself that she had never understood why people thought _girls_ were the vain sex.

The ghost of (or at least soul-fragment of) Tom Riddle didn't do anything much but look at the drama being created at the back wall of the bathroom. He had never really seen a snake swallow a frog whole, much less a human, and he was very interested in getting his chance now. It would be, at the least, the most amusing thing that had happened in his sight since his creation. His attention was focused on the disintegrating door, he paid no attention to Neville Longbottom looking at the still displaced sinks and mirrors, and trying to figure out how to use his still fairly basic Transfiguration to further whatever Harry-brained scheme he was now involved in.

Screw to snot? Bolt to butter? Nail to needle? What exactly was needed right now? He squinted his eyes and decided, pointing his wand toward the nearest mirror screwed to the wall. Beginning the wand motions for this type of Transfiguration he intoned, "Screws to Steam!" while keeping the nature of the spell wrought change clearly in his mind. Harry had drilled him in this sort of thing last year, until he could keep up with the best of Professor McGonagall's class; now was the time to see if he could keep focused when it counted.

Tom Riddle's… whatever turned to toward the new voice, and then went back to the unfolding action on the other end of the room. Behind him was just some silly 'Puff playing with the mirrors, not even trying some (ineffective against a spirit) offensive spell. Maybe when the Basilisk was done with the other one there would be an exciting chase through the corridors, leading to an inevitable bloody conclusion. What fun!

As the head forced itself under the door Harry looked at the open book in his hands. On the open page there was neat, schoolgirl handwriting, alternating with a clear and forceful masculine script; the two in dialog with each other. Harry tried to rip a page; no go. Obviously it was enchanted to a fare-thee-well. Harry thought back to Cesar's stories of the long and interesting (if not always honorable) careers and achievements of various Black family Wizards and Witches. The evil thing that Cesar and Remus had discovered while cleaning up the old Town House. Things began to click in Harry's mind; they would be very useful if he managed to survive the next fifteen seconds or so. About half the Basilisk's head was now under the door, which was also starting to break at the hinges. Harry leaped down onto the snout and began to beat it with the book as hard as he could.

The landing of the boy, followed by repeated impacts by an enchanted diary, weren't painful in any major sense to the Basilisk but they did sting a little. As much startled at that as anything else the snake gave an unusually strong toss of its head and ripped the remnants of the door from the hinges, and shot Harry into the air in a cart-wheeling curve. Without his broom under him Harry was a bit handicapped at doing aerobatics, but he managed to land on his belly without damaging anything seriously. As he got to his knees he saw the snake turning to him with jaws agape. Trying to earn enough time to get to his feet Harry threw the book as hard as he could at the huge, open target. Reflexively, as it saw something coming toward it fast, the Basilisk snapped at the fluttering diary. Its fangs tore through the protective enchantments like needles through cloth; automatically the snake pumped a dose of its venom through them to "kill" whatever it had caught. The unmatched power of Basilisk venom began to dissolve the powerful death magic that was at the root of Riddle's binding spells, and the boy-ghost began to scream with pain, before disappearing. Luna Lovegood, receiving the psychic shock of having all of the life-force that had been stolen from her return at a rush, dropped like a sandbagged sailor.

Ignoring the drama playing out in front of him Neville Longbottom yelled out "Wingardium Leviosa!" in time to prevent the mirror he had just freed from the wall falling down and breaking into a thousand pieces. He pointed his wand to move the mirror over to where Harry Timmons was now up onto his knees.

The Basilisk had felt a very painful shock go through its system when it had snapped the book out of the air; now it felt the reassuring presence of the Master suddenly vanish. After all those years of magically aided life it had a pretty good idea of what had just happened. It was the most embarrassing moment for the snake since the 11th century. It quickly decided that the best course of action was to kill all the witnesses of this mortifying blunder. It was certainly Time to Get Dangerous, and it retracted the membrane that shielded its eyes.

Harry saw the serpent sway back and forth for a moment then seemingly prepare itself for some definite purpose. By now the mirror Neville had freed was close enough for Harry to try out his idea. Drawing his wand, he called out "Engorgio!" the activating word for the enlarging spell. Obediently the mirror grew from a modest rectangle suitable for a public washroom to one that was better fitted to grace the ceiling above the bed of a very odd person.

The sudden blotting out of part of the room naturally enough drew the attention of the Basilisk, which turned its head a little and looked. Into eyes; beautiful and deep and powerful eyes. Into the paralyzing, petrifying eyes of a Basilisk. While it was only natural that the snake be immune to its own venom, in the natural (even the naturally magical) world the need for immunity to a petrifying gaze wasn't likely to come up. Accordingly, it didn't exist, and the pet of Salazar Slytherin felt itself (just for a moment) start to go rigid, before all sensation left it. Of course, a properly made potion of Mandrake could revive it, but you'd have to find someone very sure of themselves to prepare and administer it.

"Nev, give me a hand in getting Lovegood here down to the Infirmary, will you. For some reason I feel a bit under the weather right now, and could use some help," Harry said as he slowly let the enlarged mirror down to the ground.

"Think we'll get into any trouble for this Harry? I'd hate for Grandmother to send me a Howler for messing up."

"Well…I think we'll either be expelled or given medals, so's not to worry. If we're expelled, no Howlers to ruin your breakfast. If it's medals, she might send a cake or something. And look, the snake's tail is still hanging down into that hole. I bet that leads to the Chamber of Secrets. I'd give medals odds of three to one if I'm right. Meanwhile, keep focused. Lovegood needs some attention now."

The boys picked up the girl, one at her head, the other her feet, and slowly worked out their rhythm walking together as they carried her down to the Infirmary.

?

Remus Lupin was sitting in a chair older than his grandfather and sipping excellent tea from a china cup. It was only of the inferior sort that the Qianlong Emperor (3) had allowed to be exported to the Outer Barbarians, but it was still clearly the most beautiful artifact that Lupin had ever seen in his life. When Augusta Longbottom wanted to be gracious, she didn't pull any punches.

"Mr. Lupin, I must say that you have always completed any commissions I have given you to my complete satisfaction, if not always with my desired degree of dispatch. But that is more likely due to my impatience than any shortcomings on your part. It is in recognition of this that I wish you to conduct an investigation for me that is _not _in connection with my duties as a member of the Hogwarts Board, but as a private individual.

"As you know, I am the guardian for my grandson, Neville, who is currently a Second Year student at Hogwarts. I am naturally concerned that he is not involved with the wrong company. By which I mean those who would exploit him, or lead him into folly. Accordingly, I would like you to investigate one of his classmates, who seems to have gained a considerable sway over Neville's actions, and has led him, perhaps innocently, into the most hazardous situations several times. I would like you to investigate the character and antecedents of Harry Timmons, a young man of whom I have not found a single connection to any reputable Wizarding family. "

Lupin tried to appear calm at this unexpected request. He had to squash this investigation completely; while his professional ethics demand a considerable degree of (he was too honest with himself to think he was going to give complete) candor there was a limit to how far he could allow that course of inquiry to go. If he wasn't able to satisfy Madame Longbottom she would just find someone else to investigate Harry, and though Lupin was fairly sure that his various manipulations were good enough to pass scrutiny, he was too much of a realist not to accept that what one man could hide another might discover.

"As you know, Madame, I have talked with Timmons on several occasions, and found him fairly unambitious in regard to using connections to advance himself. I will confess that I have in fact done some previous background research on Timmons, and I can assure you of certain facts about him.

"He is in fact an orphan, whose honest parents were unfortunately caught up in the violence of the First Wizarding War. For his own good it was decided to have him raised outside the Magical community, and under a pseudonym. He has been informed of all the facts of his parentage, and is in complete agreement with the decision. In his general conduct, I think that it can stand up to any honest scrutiny."

"Mr. Lupin, I appreciate your swift fulfilling of your commission. I presume you consider Mr. Timmons to be intelligent, brave, forthright, and honest?"

Lupin nodded his head. Madam Longbottom then continued.

"That is very much the impression I had received from Minerva McGonagall when I wrote to her on this very question. I have the greatest respect for Minerva, and her canvas of some of the other teachers at Hogwarts seems to bear out her conclusions. I presume you have some idea of her speculations on Mr. Timmons origins?"

"I believe, though she hasn't said so directly, that she has the opinion that my relationship with Timmons is parental. In that she is mistaken, though for various reasons I have never tried to disillusion her. There are certain long-standing reasons for that."

Madame Longbottom nodded; she had her own information on which to judge the reliability of Professor McGonagall's speculations.

"Minnie has always been something of a romantic; she was always too straitlaced for illicit affairs herself, but how she would gossip! But enough of my reminiscing.

"Since meeting with Mr. Timmons, Neville has been involved in a number of escapades, all of which have had a degree of danger, and all of which he has, to general surprise, not least my own, been outrageously successful at. Though the Headmaster has successfully obfuscated the precise facts about the Chamber of Secrets affair it seems that Neville has been, with Timmons active support, given the majority of the credit for ending that murky business. Yet Neville has written to me indicating that he was merely involved by accident, and the greatest parts of the danger and success were borne by Timmons. Even for a 'Puff this altruism seems extreme behavior, and naturally arouses the suspicion of an old Slytherin that Timmons is attempting to ingratiate, for some unknown purpose, himself with Neville."

Lupin thought a moment, and then responded.

"I think it more likely that Timmons is attempting to keep the spotlight of notoriety off of himself; the fame of being on the Hufflepuff Quidditch team is quite enough for him. Prestige in the school without undue scrutiny seems to be his comfort zone. Also I believe that he wished to give your grandson as much credit as possible in order to help him with his relationship with Ginevra Weasley, when she is revived. I think the boy is something of a romantic himself."

Inside, where things did not show, Augusta Longbottom was purring in contentment (after all, cats, as well as snakes, were very Slytherin creatures). Minnie was quiet right about some things; Lupin knew far more about Timmons than he had any right to, considering the limited amount of contact he _should _have had with the child. It was interesting news about Neville and Ginevra Weasley, though. The boy was certainly blossoming at Hogwarts; he even had a sweetheart!

The Grand Dame made up her mind. Timmons was acceptable for Neville to associate with. His connection with Lupin was certainly no drawback; in a profession rife with shady characters, Lupin had gotten a reputation for discrete and responsible effectiveness. Lupin's rescue of the Dumas child a few weeks ago had even crossed over into the Wizarding press! She did wonder what Timmons' name should properly be; that would no doubt come out in the fullness of time. For now she would be content to hear Minnie spin her fables about Lupin, and laugh inside.

"I understand you are being married soon, Mr. Lupin. My congratulations, even if she is a Muggle. I hear that she is quite the rising star in their legal system. I hope your children are all Magical."

"That is very kind of you, Madame Longbottom. I just hope that they get her looks and brains. I was never so happy as when I realized she would overlook my manifold shortcomings and agree to marry me. In fact, she discovered me in my afflicted state before I had a chance to explain things to her, and still accepted me." Lupin said this with a tone of awed gratitude, suitable for a young man well on the way to matrimony.

"Oh dear, I hope that there wasn't an… accident at that time." Madame Longbottom could see in her mind's eye the terror of a poor Muggle girl suddenly confronted by the spectacle of a Werewolf in full fury.

"I find that with a few tots of **Bushmills** in my bowl even my changed form is very calm. An endorsement for the product that they cannot, alas, ever hope to use. And it's considerably more affordable than the Wolfsbane Potion. I've written of this to several publications dealing with Wizarding medical affairs, and also the values of meditation and mental conditioning, but as the mere facts are contradicted by ages of false knowledge my personal researches have not been investigated to see if there is a general principle involved."

Now that _was_ interesting news, certainly something up Brother Algie's Unspeakable alley.

"Perhaps I might be able to help you there. I shall make my own enquiries and see if some attention might be given to alternate therapies for your condition. Consider it a wedding present, if you will."

"Thank you indeed, Madame. I've wished for years to find a way of testing how much of our werewolf lore was accurate, and helping the others afflicted that haven't been as lucky as I have been in dealing with the problem. Thank you again!"

?

Luna Lovegood made a nearly complete recovery from her possession by Thomas Riddle, Jr. She did wonder if she had certain _obligations_ toward Timmons and Longbottom. They assured her that only Princesses had that sort of problem, and as there were two of them a romantic solution would be rather difficult for her in any case. She thanked them for their consideration of her youth and innocence, but declared that her sense of indebtedness was in no way satisfied. Neville and Harry looked at each other with some trepidation, both curious and apprehensive of what her fertile mind might decide upon.

The Headmaster was glad that the finding of the Chamber of Secrets allowed him to cover up all the recent rumors of hard times at Hogwarts with a discovery of immense historical and magical importance. However, he was privately greatly disturbed by the identity of the spirit that had troubled Lovegood, and was even unhappier when he examined the ruined diary and saw the similarities between it and the locket that had been sent to the school some months earlier. He stopped dithering and began to actively recruit a new Order of the Phoenix.

Padma and Hermione, having gotten the straight story of what had happened in Moaning Myrtle's Bathroom (though she hadn't been seen there since), began to have deep planning sessions in regard to "the Timmons Question." Should they continue to wait until their Forth Year before claiming him, or was he too likely to already be taken by then? Should they keep their plan for sharing him, or have a contest to decide who got to keep him? They, of course, kept all this from coming to his attention, though they continued to make sure that they frequently ran into him in the corridors and library.

Ginny Weasley, on being revived in late May, was grateful to Neville for his part in getting revenge (though she was a little unclear on exactly what he had done) on her attacker. However, she still thought him a bit dull and insufficiently Quidditch-minded, and rejected his hesitant suggestion they start going out together. Her brothers (all of them) put him in their good books, and the Twins avoided any temptation to try out their latest products on him.

The prestige of Hufflepuff House was never higher, especially as they won the Quidditch and House Cups that year. Scouts from the professional teams began to show up at their games to look over Diggory, and the more astute ones noted the superlative teamwork of the Hufflepuff Chasers. Despite Hufflepuff beating Ravenclaw, one of their Reserve Players, Cho Chang, took a decided interest in the Hufflepuff Seeker.

Severus Snape was ecstatic with the potions he could now brew to full potential with the various parts of the Basilisk that were chiseled off of the petrified snake and revivified piecemeal. The experiment with Student Monitors had been a success and would be continued next year, leading him to many a more peaceful night, and even a slightly less acerbic classroom persona. The only fly in his ointment was when the Headmaster told him of the evident continuing presence of pieces of Tom Riddle, AKA Lord Voldemort.

Gilderoy Lockhart came very close to breaking the string of single-year-only DADA Professors. If, after the demise of the Dueling Club, he had only refrained from starting an Art Appreciation Society he might well have come back for the next term. Unfortunately, in order to give the student participants (chiefly females) a chance to study 'true beauty' he had offered and presented himself as a model for live drawing classes. While his garb (or lack of) would have presented no scandal on the beaches of a more torrid and liberal land, for that particular school he was perhaps a bit too… progressive. Accordingly he was not asked to come back the next year.

Harry Timmons, very slightly disguised to keep the members of the Magical Law Enforcement profession from having too good an idea of his looks in case he came to their attention at a later date, performed his role as ring-bearer with all due ceremony and dispatch at the wedding of Phyllidia Barnes and Remus John Lupin that June. He enjoyed the wedding, and received his first three serious kisses, one from an attractive lady who was old enough to be his mother (That one caught him rather by surprise). He was happy that Cesar was a very responsible Best Man, at least until the happy couple had left the reception to go on their honeymoon. At that point all bets were off, and things got a bit raucous. Harry accordingly shepherded some of the younger attendees to a quieter part of the grounds (**Wilkenson's Gardens and Park**), where it was he eventually received kisses two and three. It was his first experience with a wedding, and it gave him a very favorable impression of that sort of ceremony. When Cesar drove him to the Peter Andersons place the next morning, and Harry saw the family waiting to bring him into the house, he knew that this summer was going to be great.

Author's Notes:

1-Flippendo: a spell that makes an ordinary sized human's feet start to go up to where their head is usually, and vice versa, the body appearing to flip its orientation.

2- Nictitating membrane: a sort of extra eyelid, which may range from clear to very dark, that is found particularly in certain predatory sharks, reptiles and birds. It protects the eye, and moves in a horizontal rather than vertical movement.

3- Reigned 1735-1796 as the Emperor of China.


	12. Chapter 12

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 12: Toujours la Femme

By Larry Huss

Harry Timmons looked out at the throng of students and parents on Platform 9 ¾ with a benign smile. He was going back to Hogwarts, he knew he was on the team, and he had grown a good two inches over the Summer and would no longer be confused with a First Year by even the dullest of students or Professors. He didn't even mind that he was sporting a fading black eye… a reminder that purity of heart (or at least of cause) did not always give you the strength of ten. (1) These things happened, and he accepted that without his wand he had better pay more attention to the size of his opponents in the future. Meanwhile he was trying to spot friends and teammates, and wondering who would be the DADA Prof for this year. The news of Lockhart's non-renewal (and the reason, somewhat spiced-up) had been common gossip at the end of last year, and a source of much unkind teasing for the few who admitted afterwards to having been members of the Art Appreciation Society. Harry knew more on that front than most, of course. Mr. Lupin had been hired by some parents who were less than totally pleased that their daughters (and in two cases, sons) had been treated to repeated well lit views of much more than Mr. Lockhart's well known "Most Charming Smile." In the next few weeks Lupin's investigations might well result in causing **Witch Weekly** to drop that particular competition.

Climbing up to the top of one of the cars (strictly illegal, but he was too excited to care much) Harry continued his survey of the crowd. There were the Weasleys; no additions to their gang this year. The Twins waved to him, and when Percy saw the elevated boy he broke away from the family group to order him down. Before the newly minted Head Boy could get to him Harry saw another pair of twins, the Patils.

Hmm, that was interesting. The girls were certainly being affectionate to their parents, but as soon as possible one sister broke away from the other in a definite snub. From this distance Harry couldn't see which one it was. Whichever it was, the girl went quickly over to a boy… no, it was Hermione Granger with her hair no more than an inch or so long, and gave her a great hug. Then the pair went off together to put their trunks in the train. Padma saw Harry, just before Percy chased him down, and gave a big wave. There must be a story there. Meanwhile Parvati (who wouldn't be friendly to Granger on a bet) slouched her way into the train without much spirit showing at all. Harry was sure that would be part of the same story.

Back on the ground, after confusing Percy on whether or not he had authority to take House Points while still in the Station, Harry walked around greeting people and shaking hands. He knew it made him look like a politician but he didn't care. He'd had a great Summer (the two things Hogwarts definitely needed was an indoor pool, and girls in swimsuits), but there was nothing like getting back into the Wizarding World after months having to live mostly Muggle, even with if he had been with various sets of Andersons.

On the trip up, Harry had fun playing the politician all the way. He spent at least an hour going through the compartments with First Years, and getting a handle on which ones were already familiar with flying and Quidditch. A subtle welcoming gift to Hogwarts of candy (and an included message that the Hufflepuff team was not only the best in the school, but looking to put new talent on a training basis for their Reserve squad) and Harry would be off to the next bunch of nervous neophytes. When he ran into a familiar sporting face (either his team or a rival) he started to trade gossip and speculation. For example: Malfoy spilled that his father was springing for all new brooms for Slytherin; Harry congratulated him on having found such a generous patron for the team. By now Draco had long since forgiven Timmons for his original ride up to school. It had become part of school legend, and as good a story to laugh about as any that were connected to attending students.

It wasn't until he found a pretty, dark-haired girl sitting down in the train corridor outside a compartment that Harry got the information that he was most interested in. It was Parvati Patil, with tears slowly oozing out of the corners of her eyes and trickling down her cheeks. He lifted her up, didn't accept her resistance to being dragged to the baggage car as meaningful, and closed the door behind them with a 'thud'. She tried to get past him, back to where she could hide behind other's chatting and gossip, and got to see for the first time (for her) Harry Timmons on a Mission. She finally just sat down on a trunk and looked up at him.

"What happened?"

"Padma hates me. It's the fault of that bitch Granger that made her hate me. I've lost my sister forever. My parents hate me, and I don't deserve it."

"That's what _is_, I asked what _happened_! Your sister forgave you for labeling her one of the Brilliant Bitches, why is she down on you worse than for that?" Harry's voice had a good deal of what Padma would have called "Lieutenant Timmons" in it, and it would have taken more will power than a troubled Third Year girl could summon up to resist his questions.

"I… I was having Lavender over a lot during the summer, and one day I heard that Padma had asked Granger over for the next weekend, so Lav and I decided to show the M- person what's for, and that she shouldn't come between people in good Wizarding families.

"So when she came over acting so friendly, so 'la-di-da all is forgiven, and have a slice of cake me Mum made…' Lav and I said sounds fine and we know how to get rid of all that frizzy hair problem you have so much trouble with. And it's all sweetness and light, with Padma smiling like the girl was family or something, and we troop off to the bathroom and there's this bottle of special shampoo that Lav and I have been working on for a week.

"So we soap her up, and away goes frizzy, right down the drain! Shame we didn't get her eyebrows too. Granger starts crying. And then Padma blows up. At me! Her sister! And it's not as if Dad didn't manage to lift the permanent baldness part of the curse anyway; he's pretty good at things like that."

Parvati's looks improved as she was filled with righteous indignation at Granger for making such a fuss at having all her hair cursed off by someone she thought she was becoming a friend with.

Harry was remembering something that Peter Anderson had once told him, "If you let them talk long enough they generally put the noose around their necks themselves." Harry gently gave her a lead in to her tirade, "So you cursed, well, potioned away all the hair on your sister's friend; tried to make it permanent, and you feel that Padma is being a bit unreasonable by getting annoyed at you?"

"Exactly!" Parvati shouted. "And when Dad heard about it he made Lav go home and sent me to my room for days! Then he and Mum started to apologize to the bitch like she wasn't a little social climbing Mud-… Muggleborn opportunist trying to get close to a Pure Blood family that goes back centuries and centuries! Frankly," Parvati said, flipping her long, silky black hair behind her, "being bald would only be an improvement for Granger. She should stick to her own type. The ugly, geeky, Muggleborn type, and stay away from my sister! And other good families also, of course." Parvati finished the last part with a pert and perky head toss.

Peter Anderson had told him never to hit a woman, except in self-defense. Mr. Lupin had… though not in so many words… also tried to guide Harry's behavior in that direction. Cesar's life counseling would have led Harry to firmly tell Parvati Patil the truth; that her sister had ditched her company as soon as she had got to Hogwarts because she had wanted someone better to hang around with; then to lock the girl in the luggage compartment (with a silencing spell on the door, and wards on the lock) and leave at a dignified pace. As it was Harry felt his face get warm, and his arms tremble as he began (unknowingly) to resemble his ancestor Gerald Evans (2). After five minutes, during which he used not a single word of profanity or blasphemy, he managed to make Parvati doubt her worthiness to exist, and then walked out of the compartment.

He found a sparsely inhabited compartment to sit in. His curt answers and generally grumpy attitude slowly led to the emptying of it well before they pulled into Hogsmeade Station. It took two hours, but he finally cooled off, and made his plans. When the train stopped at the Station he was quickly off and slipping through the mass of students, reaching the Thestral-pulled carriages before anyone else. Once again he was quickly up to the highest point he could reach, and searching the approaching travelers. Sighting his quarry he was down again and moving before any officious Prefect could get to him, and pulled up before Team Cute as they tried to get to their carriage.

"We'll be having a Hogsmeade weekend pretty soon, care for some company? I know what's best at the **Broomsticks**, I'd treat you to let you get to know what's what," Harry said to Hermione Granger.

"Padma and I would love for someone to pick up our tab; we've heard so much about the place!"

With that, a member of Team Cute got on either side of him and took an arm, and led him into a waiting coach. No one said anything about Hermione's hair on the trip up.

That night, in their Ravenclaw dorm, Padma and Hermione conferred.

"Lieutenant Timmons must have heard about the Attack. Luna said that Ginny said that Parvati didn't know words bad enough to call him, back in their Tower. He must have said something cutting."

"Harry said something harsh? First time for him then; he's too even-tempered for his own good. I don't know how he could look at me and not gag, I look hideous."

Padma gave a considering look at her friend, "Not quite so bad now that you're not so shiny. Don't worry; by the time we get into Hogsmeade we'll have tamed the fierce Granger hair."

"Even if it takes a chair and whip, eh? Still, Padma, you're going to have to make up with your sister someday."

"'Mione, even if you hadn't been there as my friend, you were a Guest! That's like… holy or something Dad always says. Even _Mum_ doesn't argue with him about that. Parvati's being Parvati, always trying to run, no… ruin, my life. She has to grow up enough to understand we're not two little cute identical kids anymore.

"You don't understand how it was this Summer. Lavender and she always trying to get me into one of their little makeup and gossip sessions. I took to hiding out at the local Muggle game arcade; got pretty good at some of them, too. You wouldn't believe how some boys try to pick up girls though. They make Terry Boot look smooth!"

When Hermione stopped laughing at the thought of someone worse than a boy who thought pickled salamander livers (artfully arranged on a card) was a proper Valentine's Day gift, she grew thoughtful, finally saying, "Padma, I know it's still a bit early, but I really think we might consider starting Phase One of the Plan."

Now it was Padma's turn to cogitate. Usually she was the one to take the lead in social (and in DADA, Astronomy, and Herbology) matters, Hermione being the go-to girl in Charms, Transfiguration and Potions. They were going to see how their new electives of Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures would turn out this year.

"'Mione, if, and I do mean _if_, we can find the proper place and time… yes! We will initiate Phase One! Now, did you actually get to photocopy that book you talked about on the phone last week?"

With a slightly guilty smile Hermione went to her trunk and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers she had secretly tucked into the folds of her lab-robes after her mother had checked to make sure that everything had been packed. "The illustrations came out very well, I think," she said as they clambered into the curtained bed and set up their privacy spells.

?

It had been a Horcrux, Remus Lupin decided. Nothing else really fit nearly as well to what Harry had described about how the Riddle Diary had acted. Harry's scar had been similar too, and the locket that they had sent to McGonagall. Each had been protected a little differently, but the common features were unmistakable. Add in what the back half of Quirrell's head had said just before the professor had decided to dive into a stone floor and there wasn't much doubt that Voldemort had made Horcrux after Horcrux in his effort to avoid death. Multiples were supposed to be too impossibly painful to do, but… well… he was _Voldemort_. Which meant that against all odds they (Cesar and he) had run into at least three (locket, diary and Harry) so far. How many more could Voldemort have made before his remaining soul was no more impressive than a flobberworm? Each new one was supposed to increase damage to the soul, but no particular mention was ever made (at least in the resources Lupin had been able to find) of exactly what the damage was beyond the soul itself being split. The big question was: if there were three at least, how many more were possible? How many more were there in actual fact?

Lupin had more reasons than ever to wonder; currently Phyllidia was curled up next to him on the giant doggy bed next to the couch he was on in the basement, gently rubbing her tummy and humming. They had gotten the good news right after they had returned from the honeymoon; at least one, maybe two, due in February of the next year. He wasn't really sure why she liked sitting in it so much; she said it had the smell of her hero. To Lupin it just smelled a little musky and… wolfy. Then again he had never been rescued from certain death by a werewolf; that would probably explain a lot.

Lupin made up his mind; he would consult with Moody about the Horcruxes. The battered old Auror had retired just that April, and was going stir crazy with nothing dangerous to do with himself. Hunting up dangerous Dark Artifacts of the Most Evil Wizard of the last few generations (according to **Dark Lords of the Twentieth Century, **1982 ed. Most agreed that while certainly more successful, Grindelwald hadn't approached Voldemort for advanced cruel craziness) would be just what the old warhorse needed to keep from getting bored! Moody would surely still have connections among the Aurors and at the Ministry; that would help getting records and research materials that outsiders (like Lupin) would have to give a hefty bribe to have even a chance of ever seeing.

Phyllidia Lupin thought about announcing to her husband that she was feeling fat and ugly, and needed her morale boosted by some attention. She wasn't showing yet, and knew it, but felt there was no reason to waste a good opportunity for getting some affection. She also knew that he had just come to some sort of important conclusion; the change in the tension of his body was a dead give-away. Then he looked down at her and slid off of the couch into the dog bed with her. She had given up efforts at listing why her second marriage was working out better than her first one had, but the fact that Lupin actually noticed her moods had been put on that list long ago, and was still one of her favorites.

?

All of Hogwarts agreed that John Dawlish made a considerable improvement over Lockhart as DADA professor. While he certainly wasn't any Flitwick or Snape (at least by repute; no students had seen either of the two actually go all out) he was an Auror seconded to the school for the year, knew enough of the technical aspects of the subject to teach, and had enough practical experience to supervise live action training. Even Professor Snape was less vocal than usual about not getting the job this year.

Despite not getting DADA, and Dumbledore's warnings about the Dark Lord, Snape was not completely downcast. The Monitoring program was working well; no positively dangerous students had shown up for his classes. The Order of the Phoenix was up and beginning to collect information on possible Voldemort contacts. And then there was Lockhart.

Snape could, intellectually at least, forgive Lupin for his terror of so long ago. After all, it had become clear that it had been that bully Black's fault the whole affair had nearly gone murderous, and Lupin would have suffered death from that conclusion also. Lupin's obvious pull with the Board of Governors had made Snape's life easier. And now it was Lupin who, according to the** Daily Prophet**, had discovered that Gilderoy Lockhart was guilty of forty seven separate instances of "Assault and Unlicensed Use of Memory Charms." Each good for a six months stay in balmy Azkaban Prison upon conviction, which seemed to be dead certain now that so many of the victims of Lockhart's crime spree had been located and the damage to their memories had been repaired. It was true that more than one of the staff had been against Lockhart from the start (McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sinistra), but to have your enemies officially in the dirt was a sweet thing indeed. Snape acknowledged that this feeling might mark him as a petty man; so be it!

Padma Patil and Hermione Granger were very pleased on how Phase One had gone. While a threesome date was unusual for a Hogsmeade Day, it fit in with their Plan perfectly. Harry Timmons had been typically himself. His stories of his (mis)adventures during the Summer were quietly hilarious. Generous at **The Three Broomsticks**, accurate at figuring out what they would want most when ordering, and enthusiastically friendly on the way back to school. Things had not been perfect; after all there was only so much Harry to go around. There was also only so much privacy affording shrubbery next to the path up to the school. Harry himself had evidently enjoyed Phase One thoroughly. Fortunately, he was enough of a gentleman to stop when he heard Padma's urgent requests. Hermione hadn't been nearly composed enough to issue a "cease and desist," or to even want to. Success had its own problems, though.

He had asked for some very certain and private way of making sure that Parvati not impersonate her sister and get him into trouble. Padma was a little miffed that he couldn't tell the difference between the two of them, but agreed that in poor light a passion-mad boy _might _make a mistake if her sister was using disguising magic. They said they would get back to him on that.

He had also asked what the hell he was supposed to do when two of the most… interesting witches in the school simultaneously decided to drive him crazy. With some trepidation he accepted their instructions to thank his lucky stars.

After they had deposited the still slightly-dazed boy back at the door to his Common Room the girls began to realize, as they went up to the Ravenclaw Tower, that certain practicalities of their Plan had been neglected. While Phases Two and Three could be enacted publicly, or in the traditional semi-privacy of cupboards, closets, or the traditional trip to the Astronomy Tower between classes, the proper expression of Phase Four would require considerably more room and a far higher degree of unimpeachable security from interference. But in a school, even a large and rambling one like Hogwarts, with over a thousand students, teaching staff, servitors and ghosts, where could such solitude be found? Luckily the girls had Lovegood on their side.

You don't grow up the daughter of the most eccentric (to put the politest phrasing possible for the situation) periodical publisher in Wizarding Britain without hearing and reading many strange and sometimes partially true things.(3) You don't get into Ravenclaw without intelligence, a questioning mind, and a retentive memory. Finally, you don't spend a good part of you First Year roaming through Hogwarts at all hours of the night trying to recover things your room-mates have taken and hidden from you without seeing a lot about how the place actually works. Sure, she wasn't particularly happy that she wasn't included in The Plan (haven't we mentioned she was inquisitive and intelligent enough to discover it?), but felt that as only a Second Year, there was plenty of time for something to turn up for her and she could wait. What couldn't wait was the fun of discovering stuff, and helping out two girls who had been pretty directly involved in saving her life the previous year.

So Luna Lovegood asked Hogwarts. She asked the empty corridors and tapestry covered walls. She asked the wandering ghosts and sentient portraits that moved about. She asked things that not many of even the staff knew were part of the elaborate ecology of the mighty school and fortress. Finally she asked the House-Elves, and struck the jackpot.

They told her of the Come and Go Room; the Room of Requirement. Headmaster Dumbledore had discovered the Room, once. He never figured out how to find it again. T.M. Riddle Jr. had found it after he had made his Diary, and used it for a laboratory and storehouse. Others had found it over the ages, and carefully kept the knowledge secret, using it for purposes noble and sordid, mundane, and esoteric. Now, three of the most dangerous minds of this generation's Hogwarts students had discovered it for their own purposes; for a Plan.

?

Cesar Romanescu looked at the fireplace through the inch or so of Glen Ord single malt whiskey in the tumbler he held in his left hand and contemplated growing up. When he was called Sirius Black he had gone straight from spoiled scion of aristocrats into a war, and then prison. No real growing up there, just learning to endure. After escape he had been spending the last few years in a prolonged series of lighthearted interludes (Witch or Muggle, single or married) with the seemingly unlimited number of attractive women who were unhappy about their love-life (or at least sex-life) if it didn't include him. He hadn't lied, potioned, or spelled anyone into anything; a Marauder had standards. That and a large helping of the best other things in life were things he would never regret indulging in. He could keep this life up (financially and physically) for as long as he wanted. Still… still… he had to do more, he had to become more. He had to grow up.

Remus had told him the news, good and bad. An immortal monster was due to reappear sooner or later, and children on the way. Cesar remembered when James and Lily had wed, when they had had Harry. He had been secretly resentful that his life (fierce rebellion against his parents, while being comfortably supported by a sympathetic relative) was being altered by James moving off in a different direction. If Lily hadn't been a part of his old life also, and Harry so endearing, Cesar was certain he'd have made a complete ass of himself back then. But he still hadn't really grown up. Even now he realized that he was more of a charming older scapegrace cousin than a real godfather to the boy. How the boy had grown up so mature was completely due to other people. Now Phyllidia was expecting. Cesar could see how Remus would want to bed her; she was attractive even if not beautiful. Marrying her though; who would want to be _out_ of bed with that much brains, ambition and with such a cutting tongue? If she'd been a Witch the only question would have been: Slytherin or Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw or Slytherin? Cesar leaned heavily to Slytherin.

But she was a good person; Remus loved her, and even Cesar had to admit he liked her. Cesar realized that while he wanted his uncommitted bachelor life to continue; he was just a little envious of… not his best friend exactly. More the active contentment Remus was showing. Not a passive and unthinking thing, but being both happier and more alive than he had been before; before Phyllidia had made his life larger. Cesar Romanescu supposed thinking like this was a sign that slowly, perhaps even secretly against his own will, he was growing up.

?

The three girls gingerly went into the room on the seventh floor of Hogwarts. Hermione, who was good at things like that, knew very well that there was no place for it to be there; she had seen that side of the castle often enough to know that the wall on that level allowed nothing except the long corridor to possibly exist. Being a witch at Hogwarts she also accepted that such a reality was really only a sometime thing. She had evidently just never looked at a time when the Room was being there. Now that she thought of it, the strange grammar of the House-elves used could be the result of their living such a magic-soaked life, when things and qualities were so mutable it might be necessary to talk in a very specific way.

It was a dusty mess, but it certainly had loads of possibilities. Their summoning thought for the Room had been for a nice place that a few Ravenclaw girls could fix up suitably to invite a friend or two over for some comfortable and very private occasions. And with excellent sanitary facilities; Hermione had _insisted_. Accordingly there was a lot of cleaning up to do, but under the ghost-like sheets there was some good furniture, and the views they could see from the windows on three of the walls were breathtaking views of the Scottish Highlands.

They were 'Claws, not 'Puffs, but they weren't scared of work (except Hermione, who had to beg off cleaning the outsides of the windows, a job Luna took over with frightening, un-safety belted, enthusiasm), and two weeks of cleaning and furniture moving sessions gave them a nice, if austere, study and social lounge with the best appointed bathroom in Hogwarts. It had taken a few Muggle magazines on home decorating that Mrs. Granger had supplied; but now besides certain areas of greater privacy and comfort (and the only heated toilet seats in the school), and certain plumbing objects most of the male population of Hogwarts would have been puzzled at, Raven's Nest (as they decided to call it for quick summoning) also boasted the only twenty-two heads, completely surrounding the bathers at three levels, unlimited hot water shower within a hundred miles. And it was so _shiny_. Hogwarts was very proud also. No one had updated its style ideas since the '70s (1873 to be exact), and over time a castle could get dowdy without realizing it. (4) Certain proposals for structural and decorating updating began to write themselves in rooms unoccupied for hundreds of years.

To thank Luna for all her help, and for her promise to respect the coded messages that would be carefully left outside to indicate the various states of occupancy the Room would be in (busy now, occupied but you can come in, empty), Hermione and Padma went through the pages that Hermione had copied from the book her parents had kept carefully in a closed drawer in the nightstand next to their bed to prevent their bright but (hopefully) inexperienced daughter from seeing things she was too young to understand. The pages Padma and Hermione thought the sweet but inexperienced younger girl could handle were magically copied and handed over, with instructions not to show them around too widely, and not to say where she had got them. Luna, of course, agreed. Since not having her life devoured by a cursed artifact things had taken a grand upturn. Now she even had a new (short-term) goal in life. Locating and getting a copy of the whole, unexpurgated illustrated text of that interesting Muggle book: **Le Joie de Sexe**.

Hmm, while Daddy was very much in favor of her learning all that she could, Luna had a suspicion that he might be just a bit less flexible in this case. That only left learning the delicate art of magical burglary! She'd just find where the Team kept it, break in, and make her own copy, with all the illustrations un-censored. Going to Hogwarts gave you such a practical education!

Author's Notes:

Gotten rescuing a Lady in Distress at the swimming pool from a cad that outweighed Harry by at least forty pounds. While Harry was getting repeatedly knocked down and severely bruised the Lady in question found a loose Beach Umbrella and began to hit the bully harshly around the head and shoulders, until he fled. The sincere thanks Harry received from the young lady (but alas, still at least three years too old for him) were enough to ensure that he regretted nothing, except not spotting the Beach Umbrella himself when he first got involved.

Gerald Evans (1770-1833) rose to the rank of Sergeant Major of the fifth Battalion of the 60th Regiment of Foot (Royal Americans). At the Battle of Salamanca (1812) the Battalion charged and routed the 102e Regiment d'Infanterie rather than having Sergeant Major Evans say that he was irked with their performance.

A careful analysis of the articles of (for example) **The Daily Prophet **and **The Quibbler **would turn up the interesting fact that the percentage of verifiable information in each were almost as likely to be accurate; but only in different fields. **The Daily Prophet** had an enviable record in Business, Social Events, and Natural (Wizarding) Philosophy. **The Quibbler** was often spot-on in the fields of Politics, Law, and Muggle Affairs. Go figure.

Hogwarts is, of course, sentient. Previous major style updates had taken place in 1324 and 1645 also. For a humorous take on Hogwarts plumbing see Jason Byrnomouth's **Plumbing the Depths: sanitary engineering at Hogwarts.** Published in 1934 by Chaos Press.


	13. Chapter 13

I do not own, or receive any benefits, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 13: No Plan Survives…

By Larry Huss

Raven's Nest, the girls decided, was _almost_ just right. It needed something… something decorative in a dignified and classical vein. Perhaps a piece of statuary, something with a Ravenclaw theme. Yes that sounded right. Leaving clear directions about what was wanted the three girls checked the exit (they had carefully had a one way wide-angle peephole installed in the door) and left the room on a cold and dreary October evening. On the way back to the dorms, Luna asked how Arithmancy was compared to Ancient Runes as a useful elective in the Third Year. That important question was carefully gone over. Arithmancy was finally declared more useful, while Runes was a bit more fun. It was always well to remember, these girls were all 'Claws.

The next evening (after a quick check in the Library on the chances of dangerous infections from hippogriff scratches) the three made their way up to the Nest, making sure that they weren't followed. There wasn't really all that much chance of that happening, but having a secret hideout made precautions like that seem like an essential part of the fun. In any case they had researched a few good spells to cover their tracks and make anyone following them too closely especially regret the staircases. The merits of going for a Monitor position were being discussed as they entered the room. The extra points earned (and general House approval) versus the time occupied checking up on Firsties learning new ways to melt cauldrons; was it worth it to get one over on the Quidditch jocks?

As they entered Raven's Nest, Luna stopped dead and whispered, "He's here." She began to edge her way out of the room quietly while dragging her friends out with her. The other two looked at her, speechless.

"He's here, I feel him. Be quiet, he's sleeping. Maybe we can get out before he wakes."

Hermione shot a glance at Padma; handling the least firmly-grounded in reality person of their group was one of the things she specialized in. Padma flicked her head back, toward the door, and Hermione stopped resisting and allowed herself to be led back out into the corridor.

Once there, with the door closed and the wall once again seemingly the only thing there, she asked the obvious question. "Who's there; Harry, the Headmaster, Neville, Malfoy, Boot, _Weasley?_" She was careful in naming the significant men (who would be in Hogwarts) in her life in reverse order of desired attendance.

Luna, unusually concentrated and serious, supplied the answer.

"_Riddle_; once someone gets in your head you can't mistake them for anyone else. He's in that room. I could feel him there, but lightly. So he must be sleeping or something. Let's get the Headmaster; he should be able to sort the bugger out!"

Hermione looked at Padma. "The Nest."

Padma replied to Hermione, "He'll put it off limits."

Luna grabbed their arms fiercely and hissed; "You don't know him, he's too dangerous to try to do by ourselves. We've got to get someone _really, really good_ to handle him."

"Professor Flitwick was a master dueler, maybe…" Hermione said.

Padma shook her head. "Nope, off limits again, I'm sure."

They went down the list of people they knew and thought had a hope of dealing with Luna's nemesis. The Head Boy and Girl were too likely to turn them in for unauthorized… something or other. Percy Weasley was respected for his talents, but even Hermione felt that he made stick-in-the-muds look flexible and reasonable about things. The DADA professor was, like Flitwick, bound by his job to turn the Room over to official authorities, wasting all their cleaning up and decorating. It finally came down to the one name they had wanted to avoid.

"Harry Timmons."

"Harry."

"The Lieutenant; it's what he _does_, really."

"But, what if he gets hurt, what if he gets… possessed?" Hermione asked.

"Luna said he didn't have any problems with Riddle the last time. If he thinks he can't handle it, we'll… we'll… talk to the Headmaster. If everything has to go bust we can at least get it done in style."

It took a day for them (en masse; Luna wasn't going to get left out of this adventure) to find Harry Timmons in a sufficiently private place to present the situation to him. When he told them that he'd look at it next week Padma and Hermione became offended at his casual tone and leisurely attitude. It wasn't until they were debating whether to go and try to handle the problem themselves after all that Luna put it all together. His advice had been to let it lie until he could get to it, else it would just find another secret hideout made a lot of sense from a certain viewpoint.

"When Riddle came out of his book, up in Moaning Myrtle's Room, he wasn't really very physical. When his book was hurt, he just disappeared. I bet he was something like a ghost himself, but getting realer by taking my life. Ugh. Well, suppose he's got something like the book up in the room, a detached heart or something. I bet Harry is going in prepared this time for something like that, instead of having to make up something on the fly."

The thought of a squishy, pulsing, bodily organ seemed suitably gruesome to the other girls. The idea of a detached body part was a commonplace in Wizarding Fiction, and while Luna was a fountain for odd ideas (even for imaginative young witches) nothing she had said, allowing for her reporting of Riddle up in the Room to begin with being true, was anything but good sense for a reasonable witch .

Luna's explanation satisfied Hermione and Padma, and they were relatively patient for the rest of the week. Not spending their time redecorating the Raven's Nest, they devoted more attention to various other pursuits. The older girls inquired with… well, coaxed… actually, badgered… the DADA Professor for spells to handle incorporeal foes. Hermione then took what little he had told them as the start of an epic hunt in the accessible portions of the Library, while Padma managed to do sufficient snooping around to discover that Harry had been unusually active sending and receiving Owl Mail for the last few days, sometimes two or three messages each way daily. While her older friends were busy investigating _that_ problem their own ways, Luna managed to resolve a long standing mission of her own. She managed to get into Hermione's room, and discover all of the pertinent pages (with line illustrations) of "**Le Joie** **de Sexe"**(1) (Hermione's parents having picked up their copy on a pre-child trip to Paris)**. **After copying them, viewing select illustrations, and spending some time in deep thought, she realized she would never look upon herself, or anyone else, in quite the same way again. Certainly, none of the girls had wasted their week of preparation time, even if they weren't all preparing for the same things.

It was eight days after their explaining their problem to Harry that he came over to the Ravenclaw table at supper and whispered into Padma's ear, "Seventh floor. 11 PM."

This started speculation around the table, and among those of other houses that had seen which girl he had gone to. The general gossip was that Timmons was interested in one of the Ravenclaws, but which one was unknown in the school.

Lovegood was cute enough, but seemed a bit young as well as being, frankly, odd.

Granger was incredibly clever (if you liked that sort of thing), and decent looking in her way, but the general consensus was that she was too rigid a personality to be much fun. Shows what they knew.

Patil was acknowledged as very attractive, but her sister in Gryffindor was equally so, and surely a Gryff would be more likely to be _adventurous_ in a romantic relationship than a 'Claw. See last comment from previous paragraph.

That it wasn't a tender message of affection being whispered to Padma was fairly unthinkable in the emotionally-charged atmosphere of the school, as all within prepared for the Halloween feast and festivities and the expected revelations of social and secret romantic pairings to be shown off this season. When Harry snuck out of the Hufflepuff quarters that night those few who were still in the Common Room merely thought he was going to have some quality personal time with his favorite 'Claw. And, in a certain way of looking at things, they were more right than they knew.

When the girls showed up outside where the Room would be manifested a half-hour later (they had had to delay their exit from the Tower in order to dodge Professor Flitwick, who had been giving a refresher lesson to some students facing their NEWTS) than the appointed hour, they were surprised when next to Harry there was a tall, dark, and hooded figure in the corridor.

?

When Lupin had first received Harry's question on how to deal with possible remnants of an evil young wizard he had been tempted to pass it on to Cesar. He was sick and tired of seeing disembodied swirls of malignant soul. He was a married man, and had better things to do with his time than save the world; wasn't that Harry's job? He immediately became extremely ashamed of himself.

Harry was still just a kid, and someone with a family on the way had more reason than most to make sure that human monsters were kept under control. When McGonagall had confirmed who had shared Quirrell's head, it had become obvious that he wasn't going to be able to sit out this phase of the long war; he couldn't dare to. Loved ones were hostages to fortune, and he had his full share of them.

So, between running his business, reassuring Phyllidia that what he was doing was essential, doing research, and preparing spells and apparatus, he made sure that his will was in order.

Getting into Hogwarts that night was easy enough; nothing significant had changed in the way of secret tunnels since his school years. Doing a bit of lock-picking to get into Honeydukes was simplicity itself; concealing himself and creeping through the school undetected up to where he was to meet Harry required no strain on his powers of quiet and unobserved movement. After greeting Harry, already impatiently pacing back and forth, Lupin set up a set of protective spells to prevent unwanted intrusions, and also spiritual escapes. He also pulled out apparatus similar to that Harry vaguely remembered from a summer years and years ago. As they waited for the others he filled Harry in on the small events back home, including a short report on how the elderly Anderson's were doing. He patted a pocket in his robes, and mentioned Cesar's request. Harry's grin practically split his face.

When the girls finally reached the right section of the hallway, Lupin was introduced as Poirot ("But that's not really his name"), and they were asked to take off their robes. Luckily, Lupin's silencing spells were up to the task of preventing two cries of outrage (it was much too early in the Plan) at that request. Finally it was clarified that only the robes themselves were indicated. Soon the three girls and Harry were lined up as a photo was taken; then another at the girls' insistence, as they took slightly more saucy poses: Padma showing a bit of leg, Hermione allowing a change in posture to show how she was developing, and Luna taking advantage of the situation to tuck her lips against Harry's cheek.

Those important preliminaries taken care of, the newcomers were briefed on the protective spells in place, and the opening ritual proceeded.

As soon as they entered the room Luna shrank behind the older girls, and Harry nodded.

"It's here right enough. Can't mistake the feeling for anything else. Not _active _though, if you know what I mean. I think it's not really alive or awake or something, more like it's just _here, _without being aware that it is at all."

Luna was gratified that Harry had also sensed the presence. If it had just disappeared since the first time she had sensed it her friends might have thought she was imagining things, or was just odd. Or odd_er_, as the case might be. Independent confirmation was a great relief to her. Now if they could just figure a way to get rid of Riddle…

Hermione let the others in on a train of thought she had been working on for some time.

"Either it just wandered in, and fell into a coma, or we brought it in with our redecorating. We can check the latter idea easily enough. Just examine what things we changed, well, got changed."

"That's my 'Mione," said Padma. "Always trying to make sense of things. Well, we asked for the Room to bring in some objects de arte between the last two times we were in here. Let's start with them."

"Objets d'art, Padma. And I'd bet you've nailed it. Look at that statue over near the South window. A marble statue that certainly has a classical look, but having a metal crown on it is plain tacky. Unless you're going for Art Nouveau, and I'm certain we didn't ask for that style. The crown's rather beat up too."

With that the man they knew of as Poirot moved deeper into the Room, and began to cast a spell for information onto the statue. Hermione pulled out a pad and pencil and began to make notes, while Padma carefully observed his wand motions and vocal intonations. Harry unconsciously copied the movements, and repeated the words under his breath. Luna felt her abdomen tighten up, and forced herself not to hide behind her friends.

"It's there, on the statue." Poirot said.

"Not the statue, the crown," said Timmons, "I'm more sensitive to it, got a good fix on it. It's not waking up either; it's just sort of _there_."

With that the adult wizard went and brought in the bespelled glass tray and rune inscribed bell jar he had left outside. Then he lifted the tiara gently off of the statue, using a drawing compass and a pencil (things always likely to be around any place Hermione frequented) as improvised tongs. Putting it onto the tray, and then capping it with the bell jar the man nodded to Harry and said, "Now you try the detector spell."

Luna piped up. "Riddle disappeared as soon as you covered that crown."

Harry had felt the same thing, but went through the spell casting anyway, finding nothing evil within range. The girls were impressed how he managed to seem to get the spell right after only seeing it used once, and insisted that the jar be lifted up and they get a chance to try it.

After that the nervous adult allowed them to try their skill. He felt that knowing how to detect evil spells at a distance was something every young wizard or witch should know, and which no DADA professor ever spent enough time on. Finally the bell jar was set back down on the tray and sealed with a bead of glue. He then tried to make off with the lot, saying he'd dispose of the cursed item. All the girls protested; it was their responsibility they felt. After all, they were the ones who had gotten it back into circulation after being stored in who knew what dark and secret place, so they should be the ones to take care of it. The adult protested that dealing with dark magic like that was beyond their capabilities, and would only get them into trouble. A nasty standoff was developing.

It was Harry who broke the deadlock.

"Unless you use a lot of spells that you probably don't want to use around something that dangerous, Mr. Poirot, it would be a lot safer to not move all that glass stuff around too much. I know that there are spells on it, but still… Anyway we're in a place with some of the best wizards and witches in Britain, why not let them handle the elimination? We can just sneak it down to outside the Headmaster's Office, put protective spells on it so no one else will bother things, and send him an early morning note to let him know what's what.

"Wouldn't that be a very reasonable way of dealing with it?"

Lupin was finally persuaded by the young wizard, while the girls felt that somehow keeping the item within the walls of Hogwarts was a sort of triumph against adult attempts to keep them juvenile and dependent. To insure that no friendly hands (or minds) were damaged by unexpected Manifestations of EVIL, Luna, who was ambidextrous, wrote a series of notes on the object with her less often used hand, and it was agreed that they would take turns keeping watch outside the office until the Headmaster had the tiara under his control. Lupin wasn't sure how they were so sure that they wouldn't be caught out after hours for that long, but felt that for all the grief they had given him with their arguing they probably deserved a bit of trouble for themselves.

When Albus Dumbledore left his apartments for his morning constitutional at 5:30 AM the next day (the elderly, even if Wizards with a clear conscious, rarely sleep in) he managed to show his spryness by not stumbling over the present waiting outside his door. If he'd had the presence of mind to ask the gargoyle on his door about who had left him the gift he might have been enlightened in regard to many mysterious things that had been going on for the last few years. But servants, no matter how reliable, are often invisible to their masters, and "out of sight, out of mind."

He carefully read through the notes taped to the tray; noting it was in a clear and legible hand (the left one), and had instructions similar to the other cursed item he had recently disposed of. When he brought the equipment back into his office and removed the jar from its place the Sorting Hat woke from its between-Sortings stupor and blurted out: "Rowena, fancy meeting you…" then sank back into silence and indifference.

With that clue, after Dumbledore had called in his Deputy Headmistress, the identity of the artifact was quickly determined, as well as the all-too-familiar nature of the evil it carried. After a prolonged discussion, nearly making McGonagall miss her first class, they decided that despite the historical importance of Ravenclaw's Tiara (neither dared attempt to wear it and test for its rumored ability to enhance the intellect) they would handle it as they had done the previous object that had mysteriously come into their possession.

?

"Poirot was Lupin you know, 'Mione," Padma said.

"What! How do you know?" Hermione asked, looking up from her Ancient Runes text.

"He may have hidden his face, but he did some business with a relative of mine a few years ago, and I happened to be visiting and heard him talking. I didn't see his face then, but the voice stuck with me, and when he did the interview after the Troll Event it sort of reinforced my memory. That was Detective Lupin last night, and the Lieutenant was pretty familiar with him, a lot more than from the interviewing two years ago. I mean, I'm glad Harry can call in that kind of help. All that Owl Post last week was probably with Lupin, including about pretending to be someone else. Why, though?"

Hermione thought about that for a while. Finally she had everything sorted out and filtered through her reading of many classic detective novels over the long, dull, summers without magic.

"Harry Timmons is so open about his life that he's practically the most unsecretive person in Hogwarts. Except he's probably the most likely we know to be out after hours, even if he is a 'Puff. And he avoids credit for a lot of the things he does, like giving Longbottom so much of the limelight in how Riddle's Diary was dealt with. So honest, so modest, so open; he's got to be hiding some really big things!"

Logic like that simply could not be refuted, and the girls launched into speculation on what Harry Timmons greatest secret was. The speculations ranged from the plausible (he was the secret heir of a vast family criminal empire, explaining Lupin's involvement) to the ridiculous (he was really Harry Potter). Eventually that topic wound down and they dug out Hermione's copy of The Book, and began on chapter six, with Hermione translating from the French. After ten minutes two red faced girls repaired to their separate beds, carefully not looking at each other, and went to their troubled sleep. It wasn't until several days had passed they were able to talk about certain things, and quickly agree that chapter six was a definite no-go zone.

Author's Note:

1 - Not _that_ one, a _different_ one with a similar name.


	14. Chapter 14

I do not receive any benefits from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 14: Business as Unusual

By Larry Huss

Time, tide, and crime wait for no man. While high wizardry was being conducted to eliminate one of the few remaining anchors of Lord Voldemort to this mortal world (and incidentally lessening his very quantum of being, and compounding the effects of soul-loss), the normal nastiness, malice, and greed of the daily grind went on. Which was all to the good, as far as Remus Lupin was concerned. After all, that was what he made his living at. Sometimes he dragged criminals in, kicking and screaming to the Police or the Aurors as the case might be. Sometimes he helped spring the innocent. The latter was usually more difficult, but he found it more emotionally rewarding.

It all started in the November of 1993 with some malicious mischief… well, actually it all started longer ago than that, but making judgments about whether Salazar Slytherin had been right to be really, _really_, pissed off by Godric Gryffindor's enchanting the Sorting Hat one year to send _only_ Muggle-borns to Slytherin House is not really productive at this late date. So let's just _say_ that it all started when a small group of Youthful Offenders (previously cunning enough to be uncaught) from a nearby town decided that the Gaunt Shack (of ill repute) in Little Hangleton might offer some useful looting without even having to tie up any current residents. Being thoroughly confident, and scornful of local traditions ("That place is cursed, I tell you!") they broke in through a window and entered with wrecking bars in hand.

Shortly thereafter the two still ambulatory were dragging their insensible friends to their stolen auto, and then to the nearest emergency clinic for treatment. While modern anti-venoms and resuscitation equipment battled with stale Venomous Tentacula poison and curses weak after decades of non-renewal, those young thugs still hale drank heavily in their transport and finally decided on vengeance for their friends' pain and damage.

That night, they attempted to burn the place down with petrol bombs, and discovered that whatever long ago Gaunt ancestor who had built the place had not stinted on his spells of fire resistance; a wise move considering the many wizards and witches he had argued with over the years. The modern day arsonists didn't know why they were having so much trouble, but were of the stern British Bulldog Breed that refused to let an initial setback turn them from their course. Two nights later, having just left the wake of the friend the talented medics couldn't save, they broke into a school and acquired the materials they needed.

Even Millibank Gaunt's (1) spells proved unable to handle home-made Napalm and thermite bombs, and soon the old place was burning… well, not exactly merrily, but certainly briskly. The two young arsonists were standing outside, drinking and tossing their empty bottles in through the broken window or against the exterior wall, depending on how good their aim was at any moment. They had the misfortune to be well within the radius of some of the many spells released when the fabric of the building was no longer capable of containing magic. Many of those spells were not even curses, exactly. But for an unprotected Muggle the net result was much the same, and when the Little Hangleton fire brigade responded to a blaze soaring above the tree tops they found two catatonic young men with looks of extreme pain on their faces.

The destruction of the Gaunt Shack registered at the Ministry of Magic as incredibly powerful bursts of Accidental Magic, and produced a swift response. The area was sealed off by new anti-Muggle charms, and the owners had a warrant put out for careless storage of Dark Materials. Exactly who the owners were was uncertain, and required considerable genealogical research. At the end of three weeks the results came in. Through the provisions of Gaunt family inheritance customs, as registered in the Archives of the Wizengamot, the ultimate (in generations, not years) male descendent of the Gaunt family was either Harry James Potter (whereabouts currently "uncertain") or William Arthur Weasley. As Weasley was easier to find, fine, and was in the hereditary bad books of the powerful Mr. Lucius Malfoy, the Ministry decision was in "favor" of Mr. Weasley. He had no hope in the world of paying the arbitrarily high fine, and would accordingly be spending time in the clink for Abuse of Muggles, ignoring a legal decision, and associated penalties. He naturally appealed, and the case headed to the Wizengamot for a hearing.

Say what you will about Goblins, they do have a sense of loyalty, which even extends to those employees who are Wizards. Accordingly, the Head of the Gringotts Bank Curse Breaker Division, Grippinghand, engaged the services of Remus Lupin, LLC, to see if there was anything that could be done toward keeping one of the Bank's most promising young employees free and profitable.

Lupin tried several approaches to this difficult problem; since the bloodline ran through the Prewett family and through Molly Weasley nee Prewett to William Arthur Weasley he looked to see if that chain of inheritance could be broken by showing the Matriarch of the Weasleys was adopted. When that failed to be provable, Mrs. Weasley offered to testify she was illegitimate. That gracious (and untrue) offer was refused by Lupin as too easy to be disproved. Deeper research was needed.

It wasn't until Lupin was almost driven to advise Bill Weasley that his best hope was to start running to somewhere that didn't have an extradition treaty with the British Ministry of Magic that a better idea struck him. There was an unaccounted for Gaunt daughter, Merope, that might prove a lead.

It did, including a marriage and a child: Thomas Marvolo Riddle. It was a name not completely unfamiliar to those who had had recent dealings with certain Dark Objects and Forbidden Topics. Lupin might have had to deal with political interference, if anyone at the Ministry either knew or would officially admit that He Who Must Not Be Named actually _had_ a name and a presence in the current world. On the other hand, those who were eager to revive the cause for which T.M.R. had given his final, partial measure saw an opportunity in the case. When they were apprised of the connection, and found out about Quirrell's Leap and the face on the back of his head (including the bit about _someone's_ spiritual essence observed to have fled) they eagerly rushed to have survival of the Gaunt line against all odds officially confirmed. This led to several weeks of deadlock with considerable political maneuvering around a case still to have its day at the Wizengamot, for confirmation of the decision.

The final result went in the Weasley boy's favor when Ted Nott persuaded Lucius Malfoy to give up his petty feud with the Weasleys and join those wishing to affirm that Tom Marvolo Riddle had been a descendent of Salazar Slytherin (as all admitted the Gaunts had been) and was still active (even if temporarily short a body) in the world. It wasn't quite, yet, an announcement to the world that Voldemort was back, but it served the current purposes of those who once were (and hoped to be again) Death Eaters. None bothered to ask why Albus Dumbledore was so cooperative with this fairly quiet legal proceeding in their favor, rather than trying to pick up brownie points with the Administration. Well, Malfoy did, but in the end he just put it down to Dumbledore's irrational preference for the ginger lot, rather than deciding things in a sane manner. That is, where the greatest wealth and advantage could be had.

Dumbledore's gratitude to Lupin for aiding a family with three members already in the reconstituted Order of the Phoenix was real, if not quite enough to make up for his disappointment in Lupin's lack of enthusiasm in restarting the Potter Hunt. In fact, the Headmaster was hard put to find anyone in the new Order that had nearly enough enthusiasm for the search. Perhaps if he had told them of a certain prophesy of inevitable conflict between Potter and Voldemort it would have been different, but that would have needed a different Dumbledore. At least Tom was now officially alive again, even if incorporeal (these things happened, after all). At the right time the connection would be brought out, and the Ministry would have to acknowledge that Lord Voldemort was back. So one could see that this was one of those rare occasions where everyone wins.

?

Cesar had gotten a silver frame for the photo of Harry and his harem… at least that was how Cesar named them… ignoring Remus' comments that they really hadn't gotten even nearly there yet. While Cesar hadn't sunk so low as to actually get a regular job (nor did he need to, after liquidating the main Black properties), he managed to pick up a fair bit of change here and there doing things like writing up Remus' busting of phony mediums for the press, and his own winning the top prize on that year's "Britain's Got Talent." His juggling was, literally, impossible for anyone else (who was not using wandless, voiceless levitation spells).

He was slowly making peace with his personal ghosts. He could almost forgive his parents for being insensitive, bigoted fools, and he had slowly developed a working relationship with Kreacher, after the elf saw him at Regulus Black's gravesite make a heartfelt apology for his many mistakes in judging his brother. Cesar was becoming completely content to live his life of being a playboy and gallant lecher about town until he finally laid himself in his grave; the last of the cursed blood of the Blacks.

It was when he mentioned this to Phyllidia that he received further evidence of why she had made her reputation as a merciless cross-examiner in court before she was thirty.

First she protested that she had no particular stake in the affair; she wasn't going to be doing any of that friendly busy-body matchmaking that she herself had suffered from those of her friends who had married before her. She would merely rip every one of his arguments to pieces as a purely intellectual exercise.

She agreed, without even knowing them, that his parents had been everything he claimed about them. Yet what had they produced, with their cursed and inbreed marriage? Not one, but two sons who had rejected the call to be arrogant, vicious prats. Sure, Regulus had flirted with the dark side, but in his own way so had Sirius (when that person was alive), and both of them had in the end decided to come out fighting for the right cause. If anything, that spoke of good heredity overcoming bad upbringing.

As for the other main-line Blacks… Andromeda was, from all accounts, a normal enough woman who was happily married to a Muggle-born Wizard and had a child. Narcissa was a slightly boring upper-crust matron who was guilty of nothing much more evil than being a socially prominent snob, whatever her husband's activities. Bellatrix sounded like a real piece of work, but one disaster out three wasn't bad… and if you count up that whole generation of Blacks it was one out of five.

Phyllidia assured Cesar that she wouldn't try to set up any of her friends with him, but only because they were _friends_, and she had no idea of what he would be when he grew up, not because of any hereditary taint. She only rolled her eyes when Cesar whined and protested that he was all grown up; he even had all his permanent teeth!

Still, he thought about Phyllidia's analysis, especially on the day when he sat in the Visitor's Gallery of the Wizengamot as a correspondent for the **Saptamanal Wizard World**(2) and watched his cousin Andromeda and her Auror-in-Training daughter invested with the titles and honors of the Black family. They would now be taking over, though perhaps not living in, the purged and cleaned up 12 Grimmauld Place and had Kreacher (who had come to terms with working for them) to help handle any high-society entertaining they might be doing. _They_ certainly seemed sane enough, with Dora concentrating so hard at maintaining one set of features that she was more than usually clumsy. Perhaps he didn't have to condemn himself to bachelorhood for the good of humanity.

?

It was a good thing that Ravenclaw was the least Quidditch-enthusiastic of the Hogwarts Houses, or the attention some of the Houses' young students were giving to the Hufflepuffs' athletic mainstays might have turned to serious and perhaps even brutal retaliation, especially after the 340 to 80 beating the Badgers had handed the Eagles. Not only was the Ravenclaw Seeker obviously setting her eye on Diggory, but Harry Timmons was toying with the affections of the three highest achieving 'Claws in the Second and Third Years! Even though the girls themselves seemed to handle the situation without jealousy there was an undercurrent of resentment among the 'Claws. Only Timmons' academic standing (fifth in rank for the Fourth Years) allowed him to escape unscathed, scholarly achievement allowing him a certain respect in the House that loved wit.

Harry Timmons didn't ignore these subtle undercurrents so much as never notice them. He was far too busy with his Monitoring duties, school work, and above all in his public life… Quidditch!

Not only was Harry involved with the regular practices for the team and designing new plays, but he was also (somewhat to his bewilderment) the official coach and trainer for the Reserve Team.

Bright as he was, he never figured out that the last part was CD's plan for the future of the Hufflepuff team. Next year would be CD's last year, and as he had NEWTS coming up he would not be able to devote nearly as much time to the team. So far he had seen no one in the lower years with half of Harry's potential to be an effective field leader. So this year Timmons was getting trained to take over the Badgers, and lead them to victories in his Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Years. What Cedric Diggory didn't know was that powerful forces were slowly becoming aware of his machinations, and were preparing to do their best to upset his carefully laid plans for the future.

From their cozy window seat in Raven's Nest, Hermione Granger looked out over the Quidditch Pitch at Harry Timmons patiently flying about and marshalling the neophytes of the Reserve Team into their proper positions for the next drill. By any normal standards of optics, architecture, or geometry that should have been impossible from the side of the castle the Nest was on, but… it _was_ Hogwarts, after all. She had just completed her latest assignment for Arithmancy and was having Padma check it over. Not that the equations were likely to be incorrect, but Hermione had a tendency to get so carried away when writing an assignment that she would either turn a 12 inch essay into a two yard long treatise, or else jump over essential steps connecting one sequence to another ("Simply too obvious to need explication.") leading to her work being marked down for lack of focus or clarity. Padma provided a vital proofreading function: Was Hermione's work understandable by the average very-intelligent person?

Despite her best efforts to resist her hormones, Hermione had become increasingly unsatisfied with Phase One. Perhaps reading (and sharing) a sex manual so enthusiastic about widening the reader's range of experiences was not the wisest thing to do in the pressure cooker environment of a school so isolated and full of potential mates. One very specific potential mate in particular.

Padma finished reading over the assignment, and had red-quilled only a few passages for amendment. She looked up from the paper and noticed where her friend's gaze was directed. Still, she felt it best not to lead the conversation too directly to the missing element for their afternoon's contentment.

"Well, 'Mione, _I_ can mostly understand it, so I guess the Professor will too. I don't see how you'll tie it in to the Chautisa Yantra Kabala(3), but I'm only a lowly beginner at Arithmancy and haven't read the texts through Sixth Year, like _some_ people I know. Then again,_ I_ haven't been having migraines and nightmares about equations nibbling off my toes, either. "

Hermione acknowledged defeat in a long-running debate they'd been having. "Well, I'm laying off of any more advanced stuff for a while. You were right; a person_ can_ get mental indigestion! Score another one for the wisdom of the Mysterious East. "

They both looked out onto the increasingly-shadowed Pitch, and the no-doubt freezing students doing passing drills as they maneuvered in three dimensions with increasing speed on each iteration. Padma broke the silence.

"Not really fair for him, is it?"

"Not too bloody fair for us either! The Plan was supposed to get us what we wanted, not leave us in frustration for at least three more aching years!"

Padma gave a little chuckle, 'Mione was in pretty much the same situation she was in. "So, cold showers all around, and keep up the silencing charms around the bed all night is striking you as a little… frustrating, also?"

Hermione looked shamefaced at her friend. "I didn't want to suggest any speeding up, after pushing you to start things this year. I just didn't know it was going to turn out this good, and how much that could be bad."

"Do you think that the Lieutenant could stand up to Phase Two, 'Mione? Or will it be too much for his delicate male mind in its current underdeveloped state?"

"Well, now that he's had a taste, if we keep things too slow it might push him toward someone unworthy of his attentions. We just didn't think things through enough; everything we do with him is… doing things to us too." Hermione had an almost pleading look on her face, having just discovered the romantic equivalent of one of Newton's Laws of Motion; affecting someone, affects you also.

Padma considered their options; they had all but said that Phase Two was in operation. They both knew how dangerous that was. Phase Two was, after all, only a button or two away from Phase Three; where the danger to the girls started to become serious. She felt that they should now start to deal with the larger problems than merely snaring Harry Timmons, things like parents' agreement to what would (hopefully) end up as an unusual domestic arrangement in the future.

"So: Mum, Dad, meet Mr. Timmons. He's our… guy. Oh, he comes from a … Hermione, exactly what do we know about Harry? Aside from that he's brave, smart, a natural leader, cute, and… he does end up in a lot of trouble, doesn't he?"

"Actually, Padma, he seems to _solve_ a lot of trouble. I don't think he's been caught at anything and put on Detention that I can remember at all. Probably 'cause he trained under the Detective and knows how to be all quiet and hidey until he springs his trap!

"Anyway, he's tight with the Diggorys and Longbottoms and the Abbots and all the Weasleys (except for the Bottomless Pit). So he's got good connections. Though who_ he _is remains a mystery. I don't remember any Timmons on any of those genealogies we drew up. Perhaps before we bring him up to the parents we should do a little more research.

"He isn't attending as someone on a charity scholarship, anyway. Their stuff always looks a bit third-hand and shopworn. Harry's stuff is always in good shape, and they say his broom isn't just good, it's been customized!"

Padma was surprised Hermione was tightly enough connected to the gossip grapevine to have been able to put all this together off the top of her head. The bit about the broom was especially good; she had heard that nothing impresses parents in a negative way quite as much as introducing someone as, "my boyfriend, the pauper."

?

Lupin arranged for an easy payment plan for the Weasleys. There was no point in trying to squeeze blood from a Mandrake; they just scream louder. Arthur Weasley, the family head, had a decent enough post and income, but the large number of children he had to raise had put a definite crimp on his ability to handle sudden expenses, such as a three thousand Galleon fee for the work that kept his first born free and with a clean record. The Matriarch of the family was a bit more ambivalent about it; not the result, but paying the fee without some sort of protest. She declared Lupin's bill as highway robbery and a crime against justice. Lupin merely smiled and suggested that losing a court case _and_ having to pay the fee _and_all costs and damages would probably be even more unpleasant. He had learned long ago that letting himself get haggled down, or allowing emotional blackmail to affect his cash intake, was bad business practice in both the short and the long term. Especially as now he felt it essential to start building up a good cash reserve; the twins would be born in a few months and Phyllidia was planning to take at _least _six months off to care for them. How having a family would affect her career in the long term was still uncertain.

?

Marcia McCartny was seriously considering starting a course of psychological therapy. It wasn't quite that she had paranoia; she admitted that she had been brought in as a fully rated PI, and the company even had a continuing education plan that helped her gain useful skills. She was working in much the same tasks as others, and there was no trouble about pay or benefits at all. No complaints there, at least.

Her_ secondary _problem was getting closer to invasion of privacy, sexual harassment, and stalking. Not that pig Evans (who had learned early not to get on her bad side), and certainly the others in the firm who were a more than decent bunch. Her problem was that Marcia McCartny was on the verge of stalking, et. al., Remus John Lupin.

His marriage very obviously agreed with him, and when She came in to visit her cheerfulness and glorying in her baby bump was positively sickening. Marcia had never been so envious of someone before. Just hanging around the Courts, and listening to the barristers' gossip among themselves, had (finally) convinced Marcia that Phyllidia Lupin had had no possible monetary or career motive for marriage the Old Man; it must have been genuine affection. That had robbed Marcia of any reasonable reason to hate the woman.

Which meant that Marcia was being unfair, bordering on mad, to keep on thinking that there was some strange and deep secret, some plot or conspiracy going on. That was the big thing; that was what had her keeping notes of Mr. Lupin's days off, of when he met with Mr. Romanescu, when he worked the strangest hours or when the strangest people came to visit. Like that battered old man who seemed to have lost too many miscellaneous pieces, and had the oddest case of roaming eye Marcia had ever seen. Or the one or two who came in to see the Old Man each week, almost always during the evenings, always wearing clothes that appeared looted from a random group of rag bins and carnival outfitters. Then there had been the old lady who had come in one afternoon. She had insisted that she had to see Mr. Lupin, and he had come in from a day off to attend to her. That Grande Dame was dressed like… Angelica Huston from the "Addams Family" movie, or "The Witches", except for the bloody great vulture on her hat! Marcia had been in the office that day, and was still uncertain how the woman had actually pulled off that look.

Surely an actual paranoid would think that the secret, or plot, or whatever, was aimed against herself. Marcia didn't get that vibration at all. The odd folk were usually slightly timid, and seemed lost, like immigrants new to the country. Who were they, and how did he find such people? Or rather, why were they coming to him? Marcia talked enough shop with other Investigators to know that odd clientele were common, but not ones as odd as her firm was so often handling.

The Old Man treated her well, as he treated all his other employees. Mrs. Lupin wasn't even catty, not even in the oh-so-friendly ways that marked the master manipulators of female society. Therefore, it was obvious that Marcia's obsession was completely irrational and _wrong_, and likely to get her fired. Mr. Lupin had been very clear on that night years ago, and he had certainlykept his side of the bargain, never bringing it up or holding anything against her. And still… and still… there she was keeping a diary of his doings, estimating his finances ("always follow the money"), and barely restraining herself from actively tailing him. Marcia McCartny was becoming increasingly sure that she was sick… very sick.

Author's Notes:

1- (1502-1625) - The last Gaunt to send his children to Hogwarts.

2- **Saptamamal Wizard World-** Weekly Wizard World, Bucharest's most prestigious Wizarding publication, and one of the "must-reads" for anyone who wishes to keep track of the doings of the top rank Wizarding families. (Taken from Google translate.)

3- Complex classical Indian magic squares using Kabalistic number/symbological substitutions. If Ms. Granger hadn't had access (through the friendly accounting firm her parents used) to a state-of-the-art minicomputer over her vacations to do the number bashing, it is unlikely she would have been dealing with such topics for several more years.


	15. Chapter 15

I do not own the Harry Potter properties, nor profit from them.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 15: Be Careful What You Wish For…

By Larry Huss

She was despicable; Marcia McCartny knew that now. She knew that she was the most despicable person out of gaol that she had ever met. Breaking into the files and financial records of her own office to get something on the man who had given her her first break in the business, had trained her in both techniques and professional ethics, and was soon going to be a father. Once she had gone that far, where there any depths she couldn't sink to?

The offices of R. Lupin, Private Investigations, LLC, were better secured than most places against illicit electronic bugging and invasion, but when a dirty, traitorous, and despicable snoop who already worked there decided to go that route she was practically guaranteed to succeed sooner or later. Marcia had actually felt sort of glad the first few times she had put a listening device in the Old Man's office, and found that it wouldn't work. But repeated tries found a variety of 'bug' (or was it just a better location?) that worked on picking up conversations and sending them to a recording device, where someone totally… well, you know… could listen to them. And she discovered to her despair that her boss _was _leading some sort of double life. Not, evidently a pedestrian one of swindling or secret adultery. Mrs. Lupin seemed relaxed and comfortable in the odd conversations Marcia listened in to. At least the adultery part certainly wasn't on; the details of Phyllidia's first marriage's collapse were well enough known in the legal world that Marcia had good contacts in. So no hanky panky of the assignation sort, the woman would have been quick to pick up the signs of that in her new marriage. The swindling idea was possible, but sort of odd to figure out.

There was money coming in that couldn't be accounted for by any of the normal case-load the office had records of. But why do illegal things (blackmail, smuggling?) and then have the sums not only included on the tax returns for the business, but figured into the end of year bonus the Old Man gave out from the year's profits? Marcia had gotten a great pair of designer shoes from last year's. If the money was dirty, why was it reported? If it was clean, why did no one else in the firm ever hear about the cases (except the Dumas thing, of course), and why were there no case files kept in the office? Whatever the secret plot was, and now Marcia had no doubt at all that there was one, it must not be just some mere financial diddling or tax dodge.

Remus John Lupin, master criminal? Not if he couldn't fake his financials better. In fact, he had been the one who had finally gotten Marcia to understand the importance of checking account books. Auditors caught more big money crooks than all the test tube wielders and DNA collectors ever did.

Remus John Lupin, master gambler? It was hard to see him raking in wagers at a high stakes Baccarat table; it was hard enough to get him to pitch in a fiver to bet in the office pool on who would win the World Cup. Not that the Old Man wouldn't take risks, of course. The way he had gone down into that crevasse and held onto that poor little boy until help came…

Which left Remus John Lupin, the spy. After all, what else was there, Lupin the Alien Invader? Lupin the Cyborg? Lupin the Time Traveler? Lupin the Vampire? Lupin the Wizard? At least that one gave an explanation for the old lady's hat. It had been her familiar, and would come alive and carry her evil curses on moonless nights. Really… Lupin the Spy just made the most sense. Now the question was for which side? Or rather, in the post Cold War world, for whom?

The first real break came one evening as she was listening to the recording of the conversation the Old Man had with Cesar Romanescu earlier that afternoon. Mr. Romanescu had said something about Harry having some fun with his harem. Mr. Lupin had replied wearily (you could tell by the tone of his voice) that it wasn't as if they weren't individuals who could pretty much define the terms of their relationship, it was more likely that Harry (or was it Harri, short for Harroun perhaps?) needed help before they ran him ragged. After that the annoying problems with reception had started up again, and by the time the equipment was working properly again Mr. Lupin was alone and doing perfectly mundane things. Now she had the beginning of a thread to follow. Some wealthy Middle Eastern fellow (you had to be wealthy to afford a harem, after all) was their contact, or perhaps paymaster. Her expectation it was the American CIA was dashed, but an oil-rich Arab sheik was certainly a likely enough suspect. She could just bet it was that Mr. Romanescu of the dreamy eyes who had lured the Old Man into a life of international intrigue! She began debating with herself if it was time to go and present her findings to MI5. No, she decided. A few comments and an odd way of keeping ledgers wasn't really enough for that, yet.

?

The Aurors' grapevine was working well, Remus Lupin thought. He had recently heard that a cleanup team going through the charred rubble of the Gaunt Shack had discovered some items that hadn't been destroyed in the magically (as well as mundane accelerant) fueled fire. As might be expected a few of those items were slipped into the odd pocket, and in one case, onto the odd finger. If only it had turned black immediately, and dropped off, the wizard with a bit of larceny in his soul might have lived. Instead a raging magical corruption had surged through his system, and in a matter of hours he was dead and withered. What was, for once, an effective lockdown on information (and even rumors) was successfully imposed by the upper echelons of the Ministry on what had been discovered.

Research had disclosed the ring had belonged to the Peverell family, and it was turned in to the Unspeakables for proper disposal or de-cursing. When three days later the withered body of the Head Unspeakable was discovered with the ring on his finger, it was decided to call in the unfailing hero of the Wizarding World. For a wonder, Albus Dumbledore resisted the urge to prove that he was better than any wizard ever (except, perhaps, Merlin) and destroyed the artifact without attempting to wear it himself as a trophy. He told no one, except his trusted old drinking buddy, Moody, about the role the ring had as an anchor for Tom Riddle's continued presence in this world. Not even Tom Riddle, in his currently physically contained form (courtesy of McNair, B. Crouch Jr., and Yaxley) heard about the adventures of the One Ring of Life at that time. Though it was true that Tom felt lighter and more carefree than he had in decades, somehow.

Moody, being Moody, knew much more of the reasons for Lupin's interests in certain types of cursed objects than the Ministry or even Dumbledore would consider prudent , and let him in on what might be useful to the younger detective. As far as Dumbledore was concerned… well, Moody cared for him like a beloved, idiot-savant, brother. He just wasn't really cynical (or was it realistic?) enough to deal with a possible re-rising of the Dark Lord. During the first War Dumbledore had been too passive and reactive in plans and actions; especially considering the sort of talent that had joined the Order of the Phoenix. That had led to unnecessary casualties. This time, Moody had joined the new Order all right, but he was going to reserve for his own judgment whom he let in on important information. Remus Lupin, who had been open to him, was on that short list, along with Moody's own protégé, Kingsley Shacklebolt. While Moody reasonably might be claimed to be paranoid, he wasn't dumb, and knew that sometimes you had to trus_t_ _someone_. And who better than someone who had invited you to one hell of a great wedding party?

?

It was difficult to keep your mind on work, Remus Lupin thought, when the person you were doing the search of a suspected crime scene with was fidgeting all over the place. At least she wasn't dropping things, or handling things with her bare hands. Why was Marcia McCartny so damned nervous today? He was sure that her initial crush on him had become old news long ago; it couldn't be that. Every time he tried to ask her what the matter was she dodged out of the way of his question. If she didn't settle down soon, he'd… have to ask her to take some vacation.

He knew, he knew! He'd been asking questions, all sorts of questions. True, he was disguising them as normal co-worker chit-chat and concern. Doing a bloody good job of it too. But why was he watching her so closely, if he didn't know? She felt another wave of nausea roll over her, and gave a little staggering half step.

"That's it! You've been stumbling about like a drunken sailor ever since we've got here. You go right home and put your feet up! If you've got a fever, get to a doctor. We've got a bloody good medical plan; you don't need to wait on National Health! No argument girl, off you go, and don't come in to work until you're up to it."

As she stumbled out into the December cold, Marcia McCartny realized that the Old Man had after all only been observant of her increasing dizziness inside. She felt even more miserable as she zigzagged her way to corner. Mr. Romanescu appeared at her side and helped her into a cab. Marcia was feeling so woozy she didn't even try to place his opportune arrival into her conspiracy theory. By the time she had been deposited home she was feeling a bit better, and followed the Old Man's advice to the letter. It was_ then _that she started to put things into patterns, and again came up with contradictions. Some horrid conspiracy that involved making sure that she got home to a nice cup of tea and a hot shower when she felt dizzy; did that make any sense?

?

With McCartny gone Lupin stood still for a moment to get himself orientated. He'd have to go back over the area that she had searched; he couldn't be sure she had up to her usual standards today. As he glanced over at the side of the vault that she had been working his eyes skittered quickly over the far corner. Surely she had done a good job there he thought, after all… now that he worked his memory he was certain she had never actually been over there at all. He carefully put his mind in its best order, and got all his Occlumency barriers in place.

He could feel an aversion toward going into that corner of the room. It was empty. Why did he have a desire to look elsewhere, go elsewhere? To a wizard, used to dealing with Muggles, the answer was obvious. He left the vault and placed a telephone call to Cesar Romanescu, and asked him to bring a tool.

Lupin had been feeling a little edgy as they searched the store, but had put it down to McCartny acting so odd and clumsy. Now he saw it; she was one of those Sensitive people who could vaguely perceive magic without quite knowing what they were really feeling. Often people like that got into the Spiritualist game, or at least became the victims of those seriously in on the Con. If they were magical, like Lovegood, they often turned out very odd; all told the girl wasn't doing too badly dealing with being 10% in another world part of the time.

?

As Cesar let himself into **Gruber's Antiques and Antiquities **he wondered what had been behind Remus' hurried phone call. When he had 'Ported in at an alley nearby he had seen the Iron Virgin, looking pretty dinged up, and had helped her hail a cab to get home. Cesar was certain that Remus hadn't done anything… untoward, but why the unusual urgency if it wasn't something outside of his usual P.I. stuff?

He found Lupin in a vault looking bemusedly at a rather old safe, its archaic door open for the first time in who knew how many years. The vault was noticeably cooler than the rest of the high-end shop they were in, and the cold seemed to be emanating from the safe. The interior of it seemed to suck up light, and none of the beams of light coming from the various lamps Lupin had set up to illuminate it seemed to help seeing into it much. Cesar's quick Lumos Maxima shoot into the steel box, and was swallowed up to no effect. Well, now he knew why Remus had called him in; when common sense failed Remus always had a touching faith that his best friend could provide a workable nonsensical answer. How trusting. And now Remus would give him a clear and concise briefing:

"Certain antique objects that had come in to the shop recently had started to go missing two or three days after being purchased, or brought in for repair. Owner weren't exactly sure of the time period. No new hires, and the owner didn't want to call in the Police because if it _was_ an employee they wanted to give the chap a chance to return the stuff and get fired, without having a prison sentence also. That sort of owner, that sort of shop. So I got the job, working from the Muggle side of the street.

"I had someone from the Firm in with me, she got sick from some sort of magical aura; I sent her home to recover. I figured out the reason and started looking for a magical energy source point; you see what I found. Did you bring the tongs?"

Remus had the theory that when working with unfamiliar magic that had to be handled it was usually worthwhile starting out trying completely Muggle things; no possibility of bad reactions from magic reacting badly to other magic. Currently the only magic that he had done in the store had been to detect the anti-Muggle and Anti-Wizard spelled safe, and Cesar's now-embarrassing light spell. He'd even asked Cesar to make sure he arrived a few hundred feet away when he showed up.

After he had called Cesar he had cracked it open with purely Muggle safe opening techniques; the thing was old enough to need a two key combination (too old for even a primitive combination lock). Luckily he never went anywhere without his set of lock-picks. So when Cesar pulled a set of comically long barbeque tongs he had had lying about his flat from a plastic shopping bag, it was actually SOP.

Remus would have asked someone from his business to bring them, except then he'd have had to send them away again before he did anything magical. He'd have had Phyllidia bring them, but it would have taken at least an hour, and he didn't want to risk her (in her condition) around something he currently had no idea how to handle. Moody, who had become a sort of consultant on the Magic side, was unlikely to be easily reachable for even longer. So, if Cesar was in, he was the only real choice to ask. The fact that he could be high-quality magical back-up was just a great bonus.

Lupin took the tongs, clicked them together a few times to make sure they worked right, and reached delicately inside the darkness to fish around. He felt a slight vibration, and heard a faint "ting." The balance of the tongs had definitely changed, and when he pulled them out six or eight inches were cleanly sliced off of the end. Damn.

"I don't suppose you want to just start disenchanting that lovely antique box right here and now, do you?" Cesar asked his friend questions like that to give both of them a chance to think when things turned odder than usual. He had grown mature enough to realize that while they _could _start to work on doing just that, it would likely enough lead to some high level damage to numerous pieces of crystal and five hundred year old porcelain that shared the vault with the safe. While both of them were more than decent with Repair spells, only a true master could really sort out and fix the kind of damage that could be expected if things went, as they so often did, when a Marauder got creative.

"I don't think so. Perhaps if we just sort of float it out of here, then get it to someplace it can be worked on a bit more safely?"

Cesar nodded his head; Remus had come up with a workable plan right there. As Remus cast a few protective spells (just in case), Cesar went with a basic, overpowered Wingardium lifting spell. The reaction was instantaneously apparent as that part of London had its first small earthquake since 89 BCE. Cesar was able to prove how great a Chaser he had been back in school by catching three of the four priceless items that were knocked off of their usually secure shelves. Remus managed to get a cushioning spell in place to avoid having a piece of lead crystal that had come from Cellini's hand joining its maker in the afterlife.

Cesar said in a contemplative tone, "Perhaps not, though."

Remus looked closely at the iron box. Until he had opened it by Muggle methods and forced himself to get closer to it in a corner of the room, his every instinct had told him to avoid that part of the vault. He hadn't even been able to see it. But it also hadn't reacted violently to his searching spells. Looking closer he saw that it had small caster wheels on it.

"You don't happen to have a spare door lying about your flat, do you?"

"As you were a social recluse until you managed to snare a superior mate you might not understand when I tell you I only give my short-term guests a view of me shaving or showering when I'm in the lav. The rest I keep private."

"Except when we're treated to the Padfoot Full Monty."

"Well, yes. When I act a role, I throw myself into it," Cesar said with justifiable pride. "So, no spare doors hanging around, pun intended, at my place. Yours?"

"By the time I get there, unhinged, back… let's just come back tomorrow night. Just one test more, though, to see if my idea works." Remus then closed the door, fiddled one of the locks to make sure it stayed closed, and enjoyed Cesar's startled sound when the box disappeared and he felt an immense aversion toward walking to that corner of the vault. With great efforts he was able to make it creak forward perhaps an inch or so. So, need some oil also, to go with the ropes, door, wedges, rental van (heavy duty springs only!), and a good place to store the safe until its secrets were solved. Oh, and let the shop owner know that the case was still being worked on, and to keep note if anything else turned up missing.

?

Lupin guessed that the safe had probably been in the same location for at least eighty years, unseen or molested by cleaners due to the spells on it; even as the vault doors and the shop out front had gone through a series of renovations, upgrades, and changes of ownership. He wasn't certain if it had anything to do with the disappearances… those had only started up recently, after all. What he was certain was that the shop hadn't been broken into by any means _he _could figure out, and if someone on the staff was lifting things they had very odd tastes.

The objects missing were all of iron, gold, or silver. Some of the articles had indicated ages dating back from about X hundred years ago (small circles of silver that were now undecipherable as to when they had been struck as coins, or by which monarch) to the more common hundred and fifty year old tea service. Values ranged from 5£ to 10,000£. One night's energetic larceny would have hauled away five times the total that had been lost; spreading the theft out over such a long period had just made it inevitable that some of the objects would be missed. Unless the thief was the most eccentric collector ever, the whole thing made no sense. Which meant that following up a wild lead, especially a magical one, was well worth the effort.

Lupin was able to get the store's owner to sign off on his removing an article that the man hadn't even known he had. The fellow had wanted to poke around in it, but the inky blackness inside made him a little nervous. In the end, Lupin had to argue him away from calling in a Hazmat cleanup company to cart the open thing away. Having the private investigator he had hired for his reputation of handling the odd and unusual do the job would mean it was all covered by one fee, and wouldn't have clumsy laborers fiddling around in his special vault and knocking things over.

So three nights later, after having deposited Harry off at the elder Anderson's for a proper Yule Holiday, an amusing spectacle took place as an invisible safe was pushed onto a stout wooden door, tied down with ropes that where then made unnoticeable, and the _door _was then hit with a levitating spell. Two wizards moved the whole assemblage into the back of heavy duty van (who's springs sagged far more than a few planks of wood would justify), and drove merrily off to an abandoned auto-factory in Surrey. There the van was unloaded, the area screened off from Muggle interests, and the two drove off to return the van before they would have to pay for another day's rental. Lupin _was_ running a business, after all.

There followed the most magically frustrating week Lupin had ever known. The only way they could have said to have advanced was the degree they had helped level a building that would be coming down someday anyways. The darkness inside stayed as dark as ever, nothing could be fished out by magical or Muggle means, and all the diagnostic spells tried turned up results that were just weird. The good news was the antiques shop had stopped losing objects, and the owner sent his final payment on the bill. He might not understand what had happened, but now the thefts had stopped (and he didn't have to fire any of his employees) he was just happy to put the whole frightening business behind him. Oh, and if anyone ever asked him, he would give R. Lupin a magnificent recommendation!

All very well, but it didn't explain how and why the things had gone missing (the store owner had just sent in his claim to his insurance company, along with Lupin's convincing if fallacious description at just missing nabbing the larcenous dwarf and his trained band of second-story men), though Lupin felt a little better for having solved the case… sort of. Even if it was by accident.

It was, as Lupin had said so often, Cesar who brought them to breaking out of their quandary. A short statement only, "I'm bloody sick of this cursed box." That set a new train of thought in motion, which dutifully came into a more useful station. Wasn't there a Curse Breaker who owed him a favor or two?

?

Eye candy, definitely eye candy, decided Marcia McCartny as the tall young man with the long red hair smiled at her and asked if Mr. Lupin was in. Perhaps a little young for her, but still not robbing the cradle, she decided. She smiled back at him, and told him she'd check. She went in to see the Old Man, dropped off her report of a surveillance job, and told him that a Mr. Weasley (Weesley?) wanted to see him. Getting a nod she showed the man in, and went to her cubicle. There she put on a pair of headphones, and pretended to turn on her Walkman. Instead, the scratchy sounds of her audio bug in Mr. Lupin's office came on. They were burning out more and more quickly the last few weeks.

"Good to see you, Bill. Has your mother forgiven me for breathing yet?"

"Not completely, but it rarely takes more than a decade for her to forget losing a contest of wills. Romanescu passed your message on to me, sir, and I fully appreciate my obligations. But the Bank has a strict policy of not having its employees take on outside work, and I'm afraid I had to take an oath on it when I was hired."

The Old Man thought a moment, and then posed a question, "Perhaps I could approach them about hiring you? They've always seemed rather flexible about ways to get gold that don't quite violate any laws or regulations."

"I've got something better than that. They'd charge you an arm, a leg, and a broomstick. But there's nothing that says I can't tell you the name of the man who taught me the best part of what I've ever needed to know. Who was in charge of the Department before he retired to take a job in Academia! In short, Filius Flitwick!

"That was a pretty good one, isn't it? 'In short, Filius Flitwick…' they don't get much better than that, do they? But it's true, old Flitwick taught me everything important about the job, thought I had a knack for it. It must be true; here I am still alive and not a piece of me left lying around in some unpleasant place."

Remus' voice took over, "I knew the Professor had been a duelist before he started teaching. Never imagined that he had another career too. I wonder how many secrets are buried back up at school?

"I'll hop on it, want to get this problem all wrapped up before the end of Holidays. Care to get a drink with me, down at the Cauldron, Bill?"

"Love to, but Mum's got plans for me this evening, and a pub crawl will spoil my image as her favorite firstborn. I'll catch you up on that another time if it's all right."

At that the latest microphone burned itself out, and Marcia became very busy pretending to be going over some notes. A few minutes and the Old Man came over and shooed her out, they locked up the place as they left. She was glad to go in any case. Just there, for a moment, she had felt a wave of dizziness, right about the time the bug had burned out. Perhaps she should go for a checkup after all.

?

As Lupin went to the Wizarding part of town, entered the **Leaky Cauldron,** and had a pint, he had no idea that his simple affairs were an object of frantic interest to one of his employees, even now arranging post-it-notes up on an otherwise empty wall of her small apartment. He was only thinking of whether or not to try to give Flitwick a Floo call tonight, or wait until the morning. Deciding that being annoying was probably part of his business anyway, he bought a pinch of Floo Powder from the barkeep and went to the fireplace to place his call.

The Professor was in, but engaged for the evening. He promised to call in on Lupin, lunchtime or so the next day, and said that even the bare outlines of the situation sounded enchanting. In any case, it was Holiday at the school, and time was hanging heavy on his hands with no little minds to warp. They made their goodbyes before the powder ran out, and went their ways. Lupin was able to get home well before dinner was done cooking, and took over the final stages, allowing Phyllidia to put her feet up and complain on the absolute idiocy of the television shows presented during the day, and how much the twins were kicking about inside her. Life was good.

?

McCartny was just leaving the Old Man's office after giving him a head's-up on Evan's latest dustup with the local constabulary (parking, again!) when she knocked into his next visitor… knocked into, but didn't knock over, despite him being less than three feet tall. The surprise encounter had her flipping over the man and heading toward a rough landing on her rump when she felt her upper body caught in strong hands that saved her bum from smacking into the parquet flooring.

Through the open door her boss' voice came, "You _do_ have a way with the ladies, Professor. Set her right side up and I'll get my hat. There's this new Russian place I really think you should give a chance."

Strong the short man might be, but lack of leverage made it a bit awkward for him to help her to her feet. When she was again upright and stable he offered his hand; "Filius Flitwick, at your service Miss!"

"Marcia McCartny, and the pleasure is most certainly mine. I really should look were I'm going."

"Think nothing of it. I try not to take advantage of the elevationally challenged. Especially when they are such charming young ladies."

It was then the Old Man came out and led the visitor away. Marcia went back to her desk, mentally whimpering. Dwarves now; had she slipped into some sort of Italian surrealist art film? Dwarves dressed like someone out of an Agatha Christie mystery, and with the manners of an Edwardian gentleman.

It all made sense, she was sure, just not to her. Another one of Lupin's strange visitors. He had been mentioned by the young stud-muffin the other day; an expert that Lupin was going to consult with. Marcia was sure that she wouldn't find any mention in any of the appointment books or work schedules of what the consultation was going to be about. He was certainly going to be involved in one of_ those_ cases. The ones that never showed up in the files, or briefings, or little instructional lectures the Old Man gave his staff.

Filius Flitwick. _Professor_ Filius Flitwick, if redheaded Bill was to be believed. She could work with that. In fact, rather than try to plant another microphone in Lupin's office, she would take her lunch hour at the nearest large library and consult the latest edition of **British Educators: an Omnibus Listing**. That should pin down both where the Professor was from, and from the tone of their conversation, where Lupin had gone to school. An important piece of background data was going to be filled in about the elusive Mr. Lupin!

Or not, as lunch hour was wasted, and then after work hours also, to prove that there was no Filius Flitwick indicated that held a teaching position acknowledged by the certifying bodies of Great Britain. No one of that name had a telephone, a television (she had to flirt outrageously to get that information from the licensing agency at the Ministry for Culture, etc.), or had a driver's license. She thought of checking the British Actor's Association; their files on half-sized folk should be easy to go through, and there would be pictures too. But on second thought she realized that she had had enough of having her bottom pinched for one day.

It took two days, and calling in some friends who got a thrill of helping out a real, live, Private Investigator, but she finally had a photocopy of a British passport, with a recognizable photo of Filius Flitwick: height-35 inches, hair and eyes-Brown, and a birth date of October 17, 1921.

Seventy-plus years old, with a grip of iron, and able to avoid being knocked over by someone twice his size. They sure made them tough, from where ever he came from. Perhaps he was an entertainer, called "Professor" as a courtesy, who had worked as a strongman in a very small circus? McCartny realized she was losing her focus at that point.

She couldn't see any way around it. She would have to start trailing the Old Man again. But this time it wasn't the act of an infatuated girl. This was going to be a professional job, done by a dedicated patriot trying to protect her country. And if, and if… she managed to save Mr. Lupin from a horrible blackmailer who was forcing him into a life of treachery… Marcia McCartny took a cold hard look at herself, and her motives, and realized she was utterly despicable.

?

Peter Anderson looked around and saw Harry gently disengaging himself from a local high school girl whose parents had brought her to New Year's Eve party. It had been pretty obvious that the girl was taken by him. Did the boy have something on his mind?

"Pam Turner is looking pretty disappointed, Harry. I hope you haven't been leading her on."

"Not likely, I value my skin too much."

"…"

"I'd get in girl trouble up at school if I fooled around; not saying anything bad about Pam, I met her at the pool last summer."

Peter felt this confirmed his ideas of Harry growing up.

"What's her name, the girl up at school?"

"Padma… and Hermione, and I hope not Luna. Though she does have… never mind."

"Well, Padma, and Hermione, and maybe-not-Luna wouldn't know if you had a bit of fun down here would they? It's not as if they could read your mind, is it?"

The boy shook his head; Pam was luscious and had made her friendly intentions very clear, but old Mr. Anderson had not raised a fool.

"You never know; you just never know."


	16. Chapter 16

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 16: Fun House Mirrors

By Larry Huss

As he had done so often before, Lupin had picked up Harry at Peter Anderson's. Then he had driven the boy and his luggage to the parking lot adjacent to his office, disguised himself, and helped carry things through the Muggle London transportation system to the train station. This time he had gone through with Harry to platform 9 ¾ to see him off. On the trip down Lupin had tried to give him some girl-handling advice; it was obvious that the boy, even more so than most adolescent males, was out of his depth when a pretty female had set her sights on him. When more than one had drawn a bead on him, he was sailing on waters both uncharted and with more navigational hazards than he could describe. Lupin was worried that Harry might be taking Cesar as his example and mentor in romantic relationships, without realizing how bloody good Cesar was in both entering, and avoiding the consequences of, casual affairs.

It was quickly obvious that Harry was by no means taking the Harry-Hermione-Padma romantic triangle (or was it the Luna-Padma-Hermione-Harry quadrangle?) lightly. Within the first dozen sentences Lupin knew that:

The girls had a Plan.

Harry had no idea what it was, except it involved him.

They were driving him crazy with slowly increasing amounts of intimacy that was both frustrating and delightful.

Harry was totally unsure if it was really normal to want to do That, and _That_, and That with between one and three young women. Sometimes all at once.

After Lupin had gotten Harry to give a clearer description (however embarrassing) for some of the Thats, he was able to give the boy some useful advice. This, That, and the Other Thing were perfectly normal. On the other hand, These Things mentioned were distinctly odd, and probably should only be attempted with someone(s) you were deeply committed to and who was legally barred from testifying against you in a court of law. And certainly Those Things were probably physically impossible without transformative spell work of the highest caliber. While admitting that he was himself a bit of a stick in the mud, Lupin suggested that Harry make up a list of limits for himself, at least until the girls, and he himself, were a bit older. Preferably by several years. Perhaps some sort of sliding scale would be best.

Harry was appreciative of Mr. Lupin's advice. It was serious, had no smutty comments, and to the greatest extent agreed with what Peter Anderson's views on the matter when properly looked at. You weren't a very good man if you couldn't control your appetites, but if you didn't have appetites you were a very peculiar man indeed.

Watching from the platform Lupin saw the strained farewells of the Patil family. He saw the wave of femininity that washed Harry Timmons into a compartment (to the unalloyed jealousy of a fair segment of the lower-Year male students), and heard the general buzz of conversation. Nothing of wars (Muggle conflicts were, of course, ignored), Dark Lords, or Harry Potter. Politics, sports, and malicious gossip were the order of the day. Satisfied that his quasi-parental duties were completed for the day he left the station and returned to his auto, returning to his normal appearance while unobserved.

Flitwick would be coming down next weekend to look at the safe, and had even arranged to have his Saturday classes in the morning, to allow more time to work on the problem. Before next weekend Lupin intended to bone up on basic charm theory, as well as protective wards. His little library back home was at least capable of a refresher course, and it would give him another excuse to avoid late nights at the office.

?

McCartny looked at her kitchen table. On it were fourteen burnt out electronic listening devices for phone and general use. Even with the professional discount she was getting at **The Spy Shop** (almost up to bulk purchase rate) this attempted surveillance of the Old Man was getting uncomfortably expensive (she couldn't bring herself to try to smuggle the costs of her betrayal onto her expense account) on her limited income. Starting tomorrow she would try to arrange her schedule to do regular, old-fashioned tailing. She had gotten pretty good at it, she felt, and it was time to see if the Student had become the Master.

She glanced up at her wall of notes. It now included a full sized poster of Bilbo Baggins, labeled 'Filius Flitwick: Man, Myth, or Hobbit?' Pinned to it was the reply from the Pension Board about where his Old Age Pension (he was over 70, after all!) was being sent. No such person on the rolls, of course.

That made it a piece with her ever so casual inquires about red-headed Bill. A light-hearted comment to the Old Man that she wouldn't mind to look him up for a drink or two had elicited the information that Bill Weesly probably wasn't her cup of tea, as he had a job that was mainly out of the country, and his mother was a positive dragon about her kids. More trouble than he was worth until Molly either calmed down or Marcia could corner him out-country. Marcia had shrugged, commented that too many of the pretty ones were Mama's Boys, and switched topics. Then, when safely out of the office, she started the by now familiar string of searches for a West Country (from the accent) Bill or William Wesley, Weesly, Weasley, Weasly, in his early twenties. And of course, any Molly Weesly (etc). She was hardly surprised, and by now not even very disappointed, when no viable trace of such people seemed to exist in the records of the vast and eternally invasive welfare state of Great Britain.

McCartny was starting to speculate that she had been hit by a bus some months ago (perhaps years ago!), and was currently lying in a coma in a long-term care facility, hallucinating her head off. It didn't, currently, make more sense than any of her other speculations, but it seemed to be coming up fast on the outside. There _couldn't _be so many odd and undocumented people floating around England. The whole thing of the British being drawn to eccentricity was a crock, as she well knew. So who were vulture hat lady, the tiny titan, cute Bill, and Molly the Dragon? And where were they living at?

How did the Boss know them so well (as his familiar way of talking about them showed) when he had a perfectly normal documented life? Born so and so, parents deceased, went to some third rate boarding school and got a perfectly normal sub-par education. After which he had then gone into a series of part-time jobs (bouncer, practice dummy in a martial arts school… the _stories _he told sometimes!) before floating into the P.I. game. Really, just perfectly normal for someone without any connections, or money in the family. Getting together with Mrs. Lupin had practically been social climbing; only someone with unusual raw talent and charm… Marcia sighed. It was time to take another cold shower.

?

He'd given Philly a simple token; rap it three times onto something hard and the signal _come home_ _immediately _would be relayed to one he was carrying. Otherwise he could never have spent so much time at the abandoned factory poring over a weird magical artifact. Expectant Father Jitters was probably the technical term. They'd had the emergency bag packed for a month, and the phone numbers for three local taxi companies and an ambulance service taped over the telephone for almost as long. Despite the Ultrasound pictures he'd seen, there had been those nightmares about the kids coming out all fanged and hairy. It was probably just as well that he had a puzzle this bewildering to work on, just as a distraction. Though even if they were, they'd still probably be irresistibly cute… Focus: the problem on hand!

Right now Filius ("We're working together now, Remus, no need for formality!") was walking around an apparently empty stretch of floor, muttering under his breath. This was the first time Lupin had seen Flitwick in full research mode, and it was impressive. He didn't look any bigger, just more_ concentrated _than anyone had the right to be. He was, every now and then, casting spells in various tongues, and receiving some sort of feedback. At first there had been the odd mild earthquake, but now he had started using a language that Remus had no knowledge of, and the rumbling in the earth had stopped. Finally the safe came into view, _with the door still closed! _

"Gobbledegook, Remus! It's all spelled in Gobbledegook! I've never seen, never even heard of anything as large and powerful as this spelled in Late Western Middle Gobbledegook! We're in deep waters here; there are political implications to be considered. Still, we can't decide how to handle this until all the mysteries are unraveled."

Lupin nodded encouragingly to his old professor and let him get on with the work. Whatever language and style of magic had been used, it was obvious that it was beyond the capacity of anyone else he knew who was available. Which left the last part of Flitwick's statement to be worked on. Goblins…Flitwick was part Goblin (or at least that was what everyone said). Goblins were supposed to look at owning things differently. Or, once again, it was what everyone said. Hogwarts had a joke of a Muggle Studies requirement, but not even a joke of a Goblin Studies course. Even the required History course didn't do much more than mention a series of rather boring Rebellions; or at least as they were taught they were boring. How to phrase the question?

Choosing a moment when the professor wasn't chanting away, in what was evidently Late Western Middle Gobbledegook, Lupin broached the subject. He hoped it wouldn't mean a rather famous former magical duelist would suddenly cast a Memory Charm and oblivate him for his temerity.

"Filius, keeping Binns on isn't really just lack of enterprise on Dumbledore's part, or a cost saving measure, is it? It's to discourage the real study of history, especially Goblin and Wizard history, right?"

Flitwick's reply started out casually: "He's really from before my time at school, but I was always told he was quite the scholar and authority on the period, when he was living. The saving a salary thing has always been considered a joke at the Staff Meetings. Not that he ever shows up to be teased about it. Why keep someone on to _not _teach their subject, after all? I don't really see where… Oh dear… now I do. "

His voice sunk down a little in volume, becoming a slightly faster, and with a barely detectible guttural touch. He started to pace, getting quicker with each thought that came out.

"It's the Pure Bred Manifesto, isn't it? Bastards. Make everyone else a scary unknown; Muggles, Veela, Goblins, Werewolves, Centaurs… creatures all. That's been coming up lately in the letters columns of the newspapers, and little hints in some of the educational decrees of the Ministry. Muggles as Creatures. And creatures shouldn't be allowed to have wands, or even allowed to use their natural magic, too dangerous, don't you know? It will go further too, these things do, _I've seen them_."

Lupin had never imagined Flitwick so _wilted_. The incompetence of the most talentless and obtuse students had only made him put that much more cheerful instruction and encouragement into his teaching. This discovery had, for the first time Lupin had ever seen, made the teacher look tired and fragile. The look in his eyes… whatever Flitwick had seen, Lupin hoped _he_ would never have to.

?

Cesar found them standing around a closed, yet still visible, safe. Both Remus and Filius had the most god-awful looks on their faces. Like someone they knew had contracted some hideous and incurable disease. Cesar silently cursed himself for not having eased his current Friday Night Tart out of the apartment faster this morning, so he could have come earlier. This was probably too important to try to cheer them up by playing the Upper Class Twit.

"Fill me in. Whatever you need, I'm up for it."

It came out disjointedly at first, mainly from Flitwick. Cesar didn't interrupt, long before the evidence had been fully brought out he had raced ahead to the conclusion. Of course, he had the advantage of being raised in the most Pure Bred of families; bits and pieces of similar thoughts had been the breakfast conversation of his childhood. His parents giving little educational lessons over the tea, and toast with marmalade, how very domestic it had all been. The memory of when he had been a good little obedient boy, nodding his head at the wisdom of his elders (_"Better dead than a Squib, Sirius", "How could they let someone like that into the government", "Her parents should kill her for marrying one of Them!") _came back to him; his stomach clenched.

"Do we drop this little enigma, and get right onto looking into the bigger situation?"

"No, Cesar," Flitwick said, "there are certain obligations we might be able to pick up; if we end up solving this problem, as I expect we will. At the least we'll have access to important information, and perhaps avoid blundering into some other solution's way. I'd hate to become known as the fool who did that!

"Besides, you can't stop long-held beliefs that play to people's egos by some sudden revelation or dramatic surprise. A lot of heavy thought and broad based groundwork would have to be done, and that is the sort of thing that has to be done from the inside. You need people like Albus, and your cousin Andromeda doing the work for this sort of thing. Oh, don't laugh. I understand why you are leery of Albus, but he has done brave work for the real Greater Good. Like hiring a little half-blood twerp for a teacher, or encouraging a young werewolf to go to school."

Seemingly encouraged by his own words, Flitwick looked back at the safe.

"I have a good idea _what_ this bloody box is doing, and even _how_. Maybe one of you can figure out _why_!"

There was quiet for a good ten minutes, and then Lupin began to speak. Cesar had always thought it was a shame his friend would never be allowed to be a teacher; he was always going off into lecture mode anyway.

"It's Goblin work, and spelled with Goblin spells for Goblin purposes. What reason could a Goblin have in stealing Muggle things? Their pride is too great to admit that others can make things of greater beauty, and it's rare that humans can, in truth.

"It's a collecting device for Goblin-made things. That's why the spells in Gobbledegook work on it, while regular Wizard ones provoke it. I have no idea _how_ it works, but the _why_ is obvious, I'm surprised you haven't figured it out, Filius. I think it's because you really don't have a greedy or mean bone in your body. Luckily I do, a great help in figuring out the criminal plots of others. Though this isn't really one of them, exactly.

"Cesar, didn't the head of the Black family have to pay a certain 'rental fee' when he entered into his office?"

"Yes. I had always thought the famous Black silverware at the old place had been bought by some ancestor a couple of hundred years ago. But when I got there after my _vacation_ I found a huge rental charge notice on top of the box. Kreacher had tried to throw it out, but just got his hand burned when he touched it. As I had no desire to continue any more of the Black family traditions than I had to, I just shipped the stuff back to Gringotts and told them to return it to the Gnasthter family. That was the name on the letter, anyway. Never got any nasty notes after that, so it must have been the right thing to do."

There was an odd little smile that came across Flitwick's face at this, and he gave a little nod. It was evident that Remus had gotten to the motivation for the safe before he had. Cleverness, at least the sort that didn't hurt people, was always a pleasure for him to see in action.

Lupin had all he could do not to shift into a Sam Spade impersonation at this point; it was _so_ the detective's wrap-up at the end of a case!

"Some really talented Goblin… name not currently available… about two hundred years or so ago from the style of locking, decided to correct what he saw as an injustice: the Wizard belief that they were buying Goblin-made things, not just borrowing or renting them. So he built the Collector. Within a certain radius it pulls Goblin-made artifacts into itself when no-one is looking. Evidently the door being closed is immaterial. It's Spelled to resist Wizarding magic, and not to be messed with by Muggles. I was able to get it open without the keys because while he was good at his own magic, he wasn't Gringotts quality as a locksmith.

"Filius, you _do_ have some Goblin ancestry?"

The professor nodded.

"Filius, being part goblin, and a whiz at all sorts of wizardry, managed to lift some of the spells concealing the safe. Now he's pretty sure he'll unravel the traps inside; I know the look a Wizard has when he's about to pull a Hippogriff out of a hat, and that means we'll get a chance to figure out who is responsible, and maybe who should be getting the stuff that it's accumulated since it was first hidden in a antique shop during the Eighteenth century."

Looking at the emotions playing over his oldest friend's face as they contemplated a course of action just on the good side of larceny, Lupin continued.

"Yes, Cesar, I figure that the insurance pay-off to Gruber squares us there, so my flexible morality allows me to cash this stuff in for some major obligations, maybe even some fees, from the Goblin community. As to selling anything in it in the normal way; there's way too much of a chance that a clan of importance in the Goblin world would look unkindly to us. Probably not too safe. As to the Unclaimed Wizardly Artifacts and Property Act of 1725, seeing where they came from it would be hard to honestly say that whatever we find will be precisely _Wizardly_ Artifacts, wouldn't it?"

Cesar agreed. "Too damn much chance that some Ministry officials would just end up with something new to have on their mantelpieces, anyway. Not that any official determination of what we found, or who really owned it would ever come to light. As to the likelihood that they would actually pay for whatever they took…"

A hearty laugh was had by all.

?

Severus Snape knew he was going to die. Not today, and not tomorrow (probably) but soon enough. Accordingly, he enjoyed the simple things in life: the new ventilators that had been installed over the benches in the Potions Lab, the new recipes the latest master-chef House Elf had learned while on loan to Beaux Batons, the show at the Tate Gallery he had caught over the Yule Holiday, the drubbing Slytherin gave to Gryffindor at Quidditch that year. Sure, his Dark Mark had become active again, indicating the War was going to enter an active phase, but he had told Albus about that and felt his obligations as an intelligence agent had been fulfilled. If repentance and regret were needed for forgiveness, he felt he had a good shot at it. If not… well, then he deserved whatever he got. Others might not see him as having mellowed, but he felt a certain peace inside. There were only three people in the world he really hated now: Voldemort, Sirius Black (did the dead really count?), and his father (currently in a mental hospital with an incurable case of the DTs). He had even slid James Potter off the scale of hatred, onto the one labeled Extremely Annoying. After all, he had made Lily happy, for a while.

Snape had no illusions anymore that Lily would have survived the Voldemort War, or what should probably now be called the First Voldemort War. She was always too much the Gryffindor not to throw herself into combat against the Death Eaters, and if they had won she would certainly have been among those marked for death by her Muggle origins.

Severus Snape began to creep out the House of the Snake. To anyone else it would have seemed he was still cold, cutting, and often cruel. To those who knew him better (the students of Slytherin) he seemed disturbingly solicitous and attentive. He began to drill them on emergency evacuation procedures, in case they were assaulted by unknown attackers in the school. To most it showed that he was at last paying attention to how dangerous the Gryffindors were. Those weren't the ones he showed secret exits and hidey-holes to, in case the House went into civil war or outsiders managed to infiltrate the school with hostile intent.

When the anonymous message came, telling in him an old code to go to one of the old rallying places at his earliest opportunity he briefly thought of pretending he had forgotten how to decipher it, or even turning it over to the Ministry. Finally, abandoning childish fantasy, he had just gone to Albus and said he would ignore such summons until the Dark Mark's summoning was too much pain to bear, and then go to the meeting carrying every possible wide area death dealing poison and potion he could brew in the meantime. He suggested some possible names for replacement Potions Professor, and turned to go and begin his preparations.

Albus stopped him, of course. The usual flood of noble sentiments, mixed with glittering images of unexpected benefits and advantages that were certain to turn up when he fought for the Good Cause. This time there was an offer of being let into the Order of the Phoenix, if his Occlumency was good enough to conceal his thoughts well enough. For he was to be a spy again. Severus wasn't certain if it meant he was to be a double, triple or some higher order of agent; it all got blurred after a while. Still, it was Albus asking, and some debts can never really be paid off. In the end Severus agreed, with the stipulation of not being in any Order; there was no guarantee how mad Voldemort would be this time around. Severus knew that anyone could be broken; he had seen it done, and he'd rather go mad or to his grave without knowing his inevitable weakening had ruined someone else's life, again.

?

Voldemort steered the clumsy construct his personality was currently housed in up and up the winding steps of the tower his supporters had taken and warded to be his (temporary) residence. Once he was up on the open walkway at the top he began the prescribed three turns around it, and then it was back down to repeat the process another eight times. The meat-puppet that he was in needed far more maintenance than a natural body; if he let it get too long into torpor or put too hefty a sudden strain on its inefficient circulatory system it might force a complete shut-down. That would lead to an awkward and painful dying episode; it was simpler to just do the damned exercise and work up a sweat. So it was keep the mismatched parts supple and tuned by regular exercise, or die the first time he had to cast a really serious set of spells. And so, up the steps of the Martello Tower ten times in the morning and ten times in the evening.

He had never thought that when he went for this Dark Lord job he would have to keep himself in shape. Wizards just waved their wand and things happened, right? That's why asking a wizard to give up magic was like asking a bird to give up their wings; using them just felt so very right. You could see thin wizards (if that was the way their metabolism and tastes ran), and you could see obese wizards (if their yen was for physical sloth and good viands). What you never saw (apart from a few sports fanatics during their limited span of playing years) were any buffed-up wizards. The effort ran completely against what made people discover and work at magic. Males, anyway. Witches were a whole other cauldron; they were always trying to modify their bodies (even using Muggle undergarments and the like), or their appearance in other ways. More than one family's Wizarding fortune rested on a better skin cream or superior bust-enhancing Charm.

When he was finished he sat down to an unexciting late breakfast of Muesli (for the roughage!) and tea while glancing through the latest copy of the **Prophet.** It was always a few days late; he couldn't really have a subscription sent to his home, and he _was _planning on moving out in a few weeks at most anyway. In any case the rag was very amusing reading, and the crosswords puzzles just _asked _to be done in ink, by those who dared. Literally asked, being a Wizarding newspaper.

Hmmm. Trade arguments with France, Fudge committing crimes against English syntax; nothing new there. Then it was on to the Editorial Page, and the Letters to the Editor. A good one on further controls on werewolves… or was it less controls on werewolves? The writer seemed all over the place on this one. Lock them up at a central location every full moon, but subsidized Wolfsbane Potion? A mixture of authoritarianism and kindness, that letter was. Well, all the kindness part would have disappeared in an hour if the writer had had to spend time in a small conference chamber with Fenris Greyback. That beast reeked, no matter what his form was!

Ah, Cat-Person was back in print with another screed on the necessary elimination of the Merfolk, Vampire, Werewolf, Centaur, Goblin, Mudblood, Half-blood, and Squib populations ( a mere starter course of action only, of course) as a vital matter of Social Hygiene. Voldemort shook his head in amazed amusement. Certainly that wasn't going to be _His _real program when he was in power. How could you rule if there weren't groups to play off against each other? For that matter, what was the point of ruling a Kingdom with less than eight thousand souls in it? Use the purest of Pure-Blood families to get in power, sure. Leave no one else to rule over, to generate wealth, staff the government, suck-up to him in amusing ways? That was a mad program, indeed!

Cat-Person… yes! Dolores Umbridge of the Ministry, if he remembered it aright. People like that always gave him the willies. Cunning and deceit had their place, and their pleasures, but nasty people who really thought that they were good and kind were the vilest of creatures. They had run (but not usually worked in) the orphanages he had stayed at as a child. Clean, decent, sadistic evil had been the only thing that had let him survive the experience. Oily, hypocritical virtue still set his teeth on edge to this day. He'd rather be a villain, and know it, than live a lie and have to pretend to both the world and himself he was something he was not. You had to have_ some_ standards.

Finished with his excuse of a breakfast and tea, Voldemort picked up his replacement wand and went outside to practice with it. If the wand chose the wielder, this one hadn't done a good job for its nature. It had no bite or flavor to the way it shot out spells. His old one had been lost when Pettigrew, who had rescued it from Godrick's Hollow so many years ago, had been captured and interrogated a few years ago. It had not only been checked for his spell usage, but it was then ritually burned, with the ashes scattered, on a public holiday that Fudge had made into a campaign rally. There was no point in getting a new one custom made, until he had at least settled in a more permanent body. Part of the whole mind/body/soul integration thing he had been told, and that seemed to make sense enough.

It was evidently No Rest For The Dark Lord Day; Yaxley showed up with a host of irrelevancies and minutiae (did they really have to select the colors of the Dark Lord's Guard's uniforms right _now_?) that were evidently essential to the seizure of power. Uniform patterns for Death Eater robes and masks? Didn't any of them have any sense of style or individual taste at all! Voldemort sighed; in a way this just showed how much that they really needed him. By themselves they'd all still be sitting around doing nothing more significant every day than… writing letters to the Editorial page of **The Daily Prophet.**


	17. Chapter 17

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 17: Alice Had It Easy

By Larry Huss

Remus Lupin sat at ease in the boardroom of Gringotts' London Branch. He had never expected to be sitting in the nerve center of Wizarding Britain's economic system, waiting for the most cunning and manipulative of the leaders of the Goblin community, and doing it without even wondering if they were somehow foreclosing on his soul.

Romanescu couldn't be here as there was too much chance the facts of his somewhat irregular claims to existence would be used to manipulate him. Flitwick couldn't be there, not only because he had many calls on his time now that school was in term, but the fact that he had integrated himself so well in the Wizarding community had left a sour taste in mouths of many of his shorter and grumpier relatives. They called him a "short stilty," an insulting label that amused the hell out of the Hogwarts professor. So it had to be Lupin there, to test the waters and see what advantages could be wrung from the Goblin nation. Except for an Assistant Manager of the Bank (Langnaal) none of the seven Goblins who marched in the door and took up seats behind the desk (that expanded to accommodate them) were known to him. They weren't introduced. Each was in the standard modified Victorian garb of a Gringotts banker. Lupin smiled at them, keeping his teeth politely covered. The time to show his fangs would come later.

They had evidently rehearsed things carefully; one after another piped in with accusations, demands and implied bribes, all too quickly switching back and forth for any rational answer. Comic, really. In this game he had all the cards. The safe hadn't been leased and never returned. It had been, in legal terms, abandoned. Old man Gruber had given him the thing, with all rights to its contents. Either they owed him a hundred-ninety plus year's rental (compounded) for safely keeping a powerful artifact, or they had no claim on it at all. If they wanted to just pay up and take the box… well then they would have to show some paperwork proving that they had a right to it. And they couldn't do that as Flitwick had been able to dispel it enough to figure out who had a claim (if anyone did) to it. Gnarish Hardgrip, the safe's constructor, had died in 1821 with neither recognized heir nor probated will. The safe was up for grabs, even if the contents weren't necessarily so. The only one with a shred of right to the container (and thus the right to open it and distribute the contents) was Remus Lupin.

In the end, of course, the Goblins did fairly well in their bargaining. His consortium would get only 60% of the recovery fees for those objects that had owning families that could be located. Objects that were unclaimable would be auctioned off (after the Lupin Group got a chance to select their favorites) with the same sort of split, with no sales of such reserved objects for at least five years. Five favors for the Group and complete anonymity for all concerned.

Lupin was pleased with himself. He thought he had handled it much as the Professor had indicated. Show that you had their head in a vice, and then not tighten it _too_ much. 'Magnanimity in strength' he had called it. From the grumbling of the seven about what a ball-buster he had been, it seemed he had pitched it just about right. After the handshake and the signatures, Langnaal had the _good _Firewhiskey brought in for a parting round.

Yes, just about right.

He was practically whistling as he walked out through the Main Lobby, carefully avoiding the Goblin construction workers coming out, dusty and jeering at their more sedentary and clerical relatives. Gringotts was expanding, or at least shifting its main axis, as it did from time to time, so as to be properly aligned to whatever constellations or ley lines the Goblins used for their wardings and protections. Lupin wondered how they disposed of the spoil and debris; after all they couldn't use wands to just spell them away. Well, Goblins had been delving underground as long as Dwarfs; no doubt they had their own particular magics for that sort of thing. Probably tied in to some of their proverbially nasty ways of dealing with intruders, too. Lupin was quite happy to be on the sunny side of the law, and not trying to figure out how to break in. Though… it was an interesting intellectual puzzle…

But that would be for another time, right now he had to get back to Phyllidia; she was getting ever so close to delivery, and he was having the expectant-father jitters.

?

Minerva McGonagall was again getting worried about Albus. Along with everything else he was doing, he had gotten it into his head that he was neglecting his Supreme Mugwump duties and had decided to get the Triwizard Tournament going after it had been neglected for so many generations.

At least his efforts to have it held at Hogwarts had come to naught. No one in either Beauxbatons or Durmstrang wanted to come to Scotland for a long winter when it was Beauxbatons' turn in any case. Why no one wanted to trade French cooking, Riviera beaches, and a school that hadn't had a homicidal insane teacher (or at least one proven so by posthumous court proceedings) in years for plain and hearty fair, a northern winter, and erratic plumbing was hardly mysterious. Wandering trolls and a roaming Basilisk were also considerations for the Beauxbatons' crew. It was odd in a way; you'd think that Karkaroff from Durmstrang would have jumped at a chance for his students, trained in Dark spells, to actual visit a place where so much weird stuff had been going on recently. Instead he seemed to have a positive aversion to coming to Britain.

At least Albus wouldn't have to arrange all the hospitality; he'd just have to show up for the selection of Champions, and to help judge the various events. When you're in your second decade past a hundred you should start to pace yourself, after all. He had sent out a secret memo to the most concerned Professors (DADA, Charms, Potions, and Transfigurations) for their recommendations of soon-to-be Seventh Years for submission to the Goblet of Fire for selection as Champion. In all honesty Minerva had to admit that her recommendations would be Flint and Diggory. That these nominations would be cutting off from play in the coming year the top players of both the Slytherin and Hufflepuff Quidditch teams back at Hogwarts had _nothing_ to do with her opinions! If Percy Weasley wouldn't have already graduated she would _certainly_ have recommended him also. Much to his still attending siblings' gratitude, she was sure.

It was a shame that Hufflepuff was going to lose the best Seeker in the school. Of course…with him gone it would be a fairly close contest between Ravenclaw's Chang and her own Weasley. If only Timmons had gone to Gryffindor (as he _should _have!) she would have had the Cup for sure. If, if… the poet was right that it was a very big word.

If only they could figure out if Voldemort had made any other Horcruxes. If only they could be sure that they had destroyed the last one of them. If only Fudge didn't have his head stuffed up his…

?

Cornelius Fudge pondered the papers lying on his desk. On the one hand… the Bristling Broomer. On the other… the Young Merlin Junior Kauldron Kit. What to get his youngest grandchild for his fifth birthday? At least the hottest things for the junior set this year were educational toys; he felt much better spending his hard earned Galleons on them than if it had been three or four years ago while the Harry Potter craze had a revival. They might call them action figures, but they were just overpriced little dolls to him.

Like all rational men Fudge had written off Dumbledore's tale of a valiant little boy fighting off the Dark Lord for the good of all nice little Wizards and Witches. It was obvious that the poor tyke had been killed, which had set off the mother in a berserk and suicidal rage that had managed to catch He Who Must Not Be Named by surprise, and finished him off. The stories Dumbledore told at the time of hiding him in some safe place… well, they say the grave's a fine and private place, after all. It made far more sense than the boy studying in Canada, or with the Ascended Masters in Tibet, or with the Aboriginal Adepts.

When his year came up, when he should have shown up to go to Hogwarts, there had been that little revival in Pottermania, but observers at the train station had seen nobody that fit the description. Some media outlets had even bribed students in place up at Hogwarts to send reports if he suddenly popped out of box or something; not even the **Quibbler** had tried to make that non-starter run. Even Albus had finally dropped his little teaser campaign to be thought of as having a Savior of Wizardkind hidden away. That gag just couldn't stretch any further.

Certainly there had been a few odd events lately up at the school. But as not a single student had died at school in the last four years it was hard to really fault Albus; for a Wizarding school that was an enviable record. To his credit he had caught and turned in the monster Pettigrew; Fudge's posthumous pardon of Black certainly was a no-brainer, there was no chance that the bugger would r_eally_ go crazy and embarrass anyone. The Longbottom boy discovering the Chamber of Secrets and killing the Basilisk just showed the level of British Wizarding Education had never been higher, him being only a Second Year and all.

Hmmm, Longbottom had been one of the Troll Tamers from the year before, also; a young lad from a fine Pure Blood family. Was it too late to shove some minor decoration off his way, and get his formidable grandmother as a supporter? No, probably too late now, but still he was certainly a boy to watch.

Fudge finally admitted to himself it was time to make important decisions. Potion kits always stank the place up and ran out of ingredients at the wrong time; it would be Bristling Broomer then. Even a five year old could follow the instruction: grab the handles and channel their magical core to make the charmed broom-mounted figurines fly on the wires over various paths. Up to four could play, and it came with a clockwork timer! The boy could start making connections while playing with some of the tykes that would be at his birthday party, just the way it should be in a political family. There would be at least forty kids attending, each with a parent or two in tow. All from the best families, of course. Just the types to be impressed when Grandpa the Minister for Magic gave his beloved little Simon the most expensive toy in the shops this year. Definitely the Bristling Broomer.

?

Cesar Romanescu supported his best friend until they reached a secluded spot, upon which he used Apparition to get them back to his flat. Lupin practically fell into the sofa while Cesar rushed over to the wet bar to get them each a stiff Dewar's Signature. Both of them sipped the premium Scotch; anything less would have been disrespectful to a noble spirit. Cesar offered his congratulations.

"A boy and a girl, you say? All perfect and totally Homo sapiens sapiens?"

Lupin had been with Phyllidia throughout her difficult eight hour labor, and was exhausted in his own way. Seeing his perfectly normal children had brought him to a place of peace and wonderment.

He babbled his reply to his oldest (living) friend: "Thomas Walter Lupin and Patricia Ann Lupin. No cute names that can get confused with each other. After her father and my mother.

"How brave she is, Cesar! After all that, Philly said we should give it a half year before we tried for some more. Lord, seeing what she went through I was willing to swear off sex entirely to avoid having her to endure something like that again."

"Curl up on the coach for the night, Remus, I'll fetch you a blanket. Tomorrow we'll get you up early enough to get cleaned up before you go to see her again; I expect her parents will be there, also."

By the time he was back with the blanket, Remus was already out; he didn't even move when he was covered up. Cesar went back to the bar and poured himself another dram.

As he sipped it he slowly sorted through his emotions; Remus had been nagging him to do so (for Occlumency reasons, if nothing else) for some time. Happiness, loneliness, and a bit of envy. Happiness for his friend's new joy. Loneliness… well, Cesar certainly didn't have anyone in his life like Remus did, and it was a dead certainty that they would be spending a bit less time together now that there were kids around. Envy… that one Cesar slowly and carefully dissected and killed.

?

At breakfast it wasn't unusual for a Post Owl to drop off a letter at Harry Timmons' place at the Hufflepuff tables; in fact, he generally kept something Owl Tested and Owl Approved next to his plate just for that reason. What wasn't usual was for Timmons to read a letter and start whooping and dancing around until Hufflepuff had lost five points, and until he was an inch from getting a detention in the Forbidden Forest painting the boundary stones marking off the safety limits. As might be expected his behavior that day received some serious attention, especially from Team Cute and Luna. They were unable to interrogate him until after classes that evening.

They found him pacing off a deserted corridor on the Second Floor, East Wing, and making some notes on a parchment that he hurriedly rolled up when he saw that he had been nabbed. As his grilling began, Miss Lovegood slowly sidled around to where she had a good shot at gently lifting the scroll from the pocket he had slid it into. Evidently her experiments in burglary were affecting her general opinions about private property.

"All right Timmons, have they rubbed out Don Dangerous and his band of gunsels that took the South Side from your family?" Ms Granger inquired.

"Or did your evil uncle die and you can now go home and assume your rightful place as Heir to the Throne, and where would that be anyway, Lieutenant?" Kum Patil queried.

"Is this a magical map of Hogwarts, Harry?" Luna asked.

"Aaahhh!" Harry Timmons said as he spun around clutching at himself to make sure that Light-fingered Lovegood, the Hogwarts Dip, hadn't done anything more than picked his pocket.

Attaching herself to his arm, Hermione purred into his ear, "You can tell us, Harry. Really you can." As she pressed herself to him Timmons felt a spot dizzy.

"If you're under stress, we could help you _deal_ with it, Harry," Padma cooed as she floated just a little closer, and took his hand in hers.

"Oh, it's got our names and everything on it!" Luna said excitedly.

Despite a great urge to confess, not only everything but anything that would keep them in all in such close proximity, Harry finally managed to get out that it was just very happy extended family news of births and babies that had set him off. And yes, it was a map of Hogwarts, with their names on it, and it wasn't half finished yet because he hadn't figured out how to get into the Ravenclaw Girls' dorms or shower room. Or the Slytherin Boys' dorms either. The last part wasn't heard as his audience was enthralled with the vision of slowly, voluptuously, showering in front of Harry T. While they were distracted he managed to break free (not being exactly sure why he bothered, but just on general principles), and escaped for the moment, the recovered map grasped in one hand.

"So, 'Mione, he's strongly in favor of families."

"It looks like he would want a big family, with lots of babies," said the wavy haired (the Wild Granger Mane having been mostly tamed and domesticated) girl, contentedly.

"That map was very unusual, bits of it were moving about. I hope it wasn't anything unnatural and dangerous," said Luna, hoping to break her older friends out of their trance. In the end, it took several minutes and a number of other conversational gambits to do so.

The story of why Mr. Timmons had been so unusually exuberant eventually filtered back (somewhat altered) to Professor McGonagall, who had made sure that all matters Timmons came to her attention, sooner or later. The fact that Phyllidia Lupin had been delivered of twins the day before the outburst did not escape her attention either. Since the boy had exhibited only joy it merely went into her mental files as another example of his good character; he wasn't in the least jealous of his new siblings, despite their legitimacy (and his own lacking thereof).

?

On a warm day in mid-May, Tom Riddle wiggled his bare toes in the breeze as he lounged on a deckchair on a veranda at Malfoy Manor. This was the life he had dreamed about, back in the Orphanage. Servants at his beck and call, tasty viands offered regularly, and the high and mighty having to truckle to him no matter how much it grated them. The view was fine too, over rolling lawn and down to a reed-fringed pond. This was a good as it had gotten for the last decade and a half, and he was making sure to enjoy it.

Lately, Yaxley and Malfoy had been hinting it was time to make a dramatic move and start to gain numbers prior to starting the final campaign. Malfoy had even been trying to bring up Riddle's old relationship with his sister-in-law, Bella Lestrange, as a pretext to raid Azkaban and free those from the old days that still survived there. It was to laugh!

After a decade and more at Azkaban it was unlikely that any of them would be worthwhile; more likely it'd just be a drain on resources just to keep them in potions to chase their nightmares away. Their health would certainly be ruined, and when you came down to it they were failures. Too stupid to either avoid capture or fake being under Imperius during their active days. Really, it was simply easier to recruit new followers without all the baggage than to try to rehabilitate those wrecks of the North Sea.

As for taking little Bella back into his bed… it was doubtful that a decade in prison, with no exercise, poor diet, and minimal medical and dental care would have done much good for her looks. And after all, she had nothing else, really, to offer. Malfoy probably didn't know (women were unlikely to talk about things like that with their male relations) that before Lord Voldemort had taken up the Lestrange family's offer of a compliant mistress he'd had her spayed by a Muggle veterinarian. There would be no need of an heir (one of the advantages of the immortality he had given himself), and the possibility of some ungrateful child leading an eventual rebellion as he realized the throne of Wizarding Britain would never come his way was simply an annoyance to be avoided. Plus, the look on her face when she had been told why she been strapped down on the table had been _priceless_! Golden memories, golden memories.

No, now was not the time for dramatic action. Instead he would get this artificial body into top shape and his magic back up to scratch. Recruit some intelligence agents (who could really _trust _Snape, after all?) from the upper years at Hogwarts to keep Dumbledore under surveillance. Form a cover organization of officially non-violent persuasion, and use it as a tool to start filtering out those that had a tendency to violence into the action squads. Call it the Wizarding Traditionalist Cultural Society, perhaps? That would give him a chance to get some talented Half-Bloods on the books without the Purists knowing that they were anything more than cannon-fodder. Start raising funds; Malfoy had enough dirt on various Ministry officials that it shouldn't be that hard to get something on whoever was currently in charge of the Ministry accounts. Let them finance their own overthrow; it sounded so elegant to do things that way, and evaded the need to listen to overstuffed moneybags always moaning about expenditures that were really pocket change to them.

For now, though… for now it was enough to slowly feel this body become more alive (even if it did mean more of that bloody exercise) and enjoy the luxuries that had been denied him in his youth. And if his body revived enough to feel such things as lust… wouldn't dear Narcissa be delighted to be informed on the next thing she could do to make her most honored guest feel comfortable. That would be like collecting a family set, wouldn't it?

?

Marcia McCartny was sick and tired of Surrey, particularly this particular section of it. She was going up this bloody road for the fifth time, without ever remembering exactly where and why she had turned around on it the other times. She was sure it wasn't some weird loop; the map was clear on that. She had tried to go up the road three times coming from the other direction, and discovered the phenomenon on that side, also. There seemed to be a mile or so of England missing or inverted on this pleasant country road, and she was determined to find out where it had gone to.

Clever detective work with rental auto agencies, credit card receipts for a fill up, and finding the right filling station attendant to question, had pretty much confirmed that the Old Man and Romanescu had gone up gone up this road in a heavily loaded van some time ago, and returned down it with an empty one twenty minutes later. The road net allowed no other solution than that _this_ was where they had gone; no reasonable places to dump something heavy were available within the time span they had between passing the station again on their way to return the van to the rental agency.

She had pieced it almost completely together now. Going back and forth, interviewing and re-interviewing, going over her notes until her eyes blurred. It had something to do with the Gruber case. They had been paid in full for it, and even gotten endorsements from the proprietor. But even he couldn't exactly say what had been taken out of his shop, just that the thefts had stopped immediately thereafter. So Lupin and Romanescu had taken something massive enough to noticeably effect the springs of a heavy-duty van when they left London. There had been something important in that vault that had left in the van, and she had never even noticed it. She had been sent away (alright, she had been a bit woozy, she couldn't blame the Old Man for that) so that the two of them could handle it. Just when she had almost… gratefully… decided she was just crazy, _this_ had to happen to open up all the possibilities again!

Filius Flitwick: man, midget, hobbit, teacher, alien invader? Remus John Lupin: all of the list (not midget or hobbit), plus spy, inter-dimensional voyager, stranded time traveler? Cesar Romanescu: the usual assortment and perfect Cyborg gigolo?

With all these wonderful possibilities how was a girl to choose? For damn sure something weird had been done to this stretch of one of England's most prosaic counties; if she didn't get a good answer soon she was going to complain to the local Council about it.

She finally went to a local store and got a can of white spray paint, then returned to the Road That Never Went Through, and went down it stopping every quarter mile. Then she would get out of the auto, spray a number clearly onto a tree trunk visible from the road, and repeat the performance. It only took two more journeys up and down Escher's Highway before she was finally able to locate, within a quarter mile or less, just were things went surreal. Then, she parked the auto and went latterly five minutes walking, and turned (as best she could figure) in the direction the road should go according to the map, and forged on.

After about a half-hour or so walking, something new and interesting came up: a sagging chain link fence around some extremely decrepit factory building. There were lights on, where there should have been no activity at all from the state of the broken-in windows and sagging roof. She wiggled through a gap in the fence and worked her way as quietly as possible to where the action was, and then around the building until a door-frame without a filling let her in. Back again to a stealthy approach up to a walkway over a floor of what was evidently some sort of abandoned industrial plant, perhaps an auto-factory.

The walkway was wobbly and swayed a little as she went down it to where there was an especially well lit area on the work floor below. Behold and Lo! There was the Flitwick himself, walking around a big metal safe (a weighty object recently in a van, perhaps?) saying something in a foreign language. She could tell it wasn't French or German or Spanish. It sounded more like Arabic, or Russian or maybe Asian of some sort. Something she had never heard spoken as she had tailed people through the streets and multi-ethnic neighborhoods of London, in any case.

Naturally enough, she crept closer to the action. If the building hadn't recently been severely shaken the walkway would have been more than strong enough all the way around. Things being what they were, Marcia McCartny's unfailing luck (uniformly bad) in investigating the Lupin Enigma conspired so that an overstrained bolt holding up a section of the elevated pathway unseated itself from a recently cracked brick wall (the fresh mortar dust on the railing indicated that the damage was recent, always remember to check for that sort of details!) and dumped the section her modest weight (107 lbs. Details!) was on toward the factory floor twenty feet below. This time it was impossible for the Professor to rush and catch her pinwheeling form before she had a painful impact.

Except he must have managed it, for when she did come to a stop there wasn't a bone breaking pain, but almost the feeling that she had landed (hard, it was true) into a mattress or two that had cushioned her fall. While she lay there, waiting for her dizzy head to stop spinning, she saw the Professor right beside her, thinking. Now, many people think they've seen someone else think, but all they've really seen is someone thinking that this would be a damn good time to think up something fast, and coming up dry. Flitwick, on the other hand, had the slightest twitches of his facial muscles and, she could not doubt, was formulating some sort of a plan completely on the fly. Before her head had totally steadied Marcia McCartny evidently fainted, for the very first time in her life.

She came to all of a sudden, sitting in a rather nice local restaurant she had noticed as she had driven past it on her way to that dangerous ruin. That she had no wish to ever go back to, not ever! She had evidently been sleep walking (or an equivalent) because a nice roasted duck was being served, along with a very appropriate wine. Deciding that she certainly did not feel like she had a concussion (she had picked up a few in her lacrosse playing days at University) there was no reason to allow a decent vintage (she thought it must be, the Professor had evidently ordered it) to go to waste. As she would be driving her rescuer and herself back into Town she limited herself to two, or perhaps four glasses, to steady the nerves after the harrowing day she had had. All things considered the dinner was a surprisingly convivial one, so much so that it demanded a nightcap at her place when they got back into her warm and familiar concrete jungle.

It was late the following day that Miss McCartny handed her Boss a letter, and requested that he have it come into the possession of Professor Flitwick, for she still had neither his telephone number or address. In it she begged his forgiveness; but wrote that it would just never work. She could never commit herself to a long term relationship with a septuagenarian, even if he had the vigor of a man half his age. She had appreciated his maturity when he had seen her Wall of Clues, and hadn't gotten angry at her infamous poster of Mr. Baggins, but… it was her, not him.

Sadly, but with great determination, her Wall of Clues came down that evening. She had to get a grip on herself, she knew. As long as she tried to go down the rabbit hole she was certainly going to end up stuck half way in.

?

As he stroked the pretty little adder's head he smiled at the cute little tongue flipping out in pleasure. He was coaching her on her understanding of Human-speak, and she was a better student than most of the supposedly more highly evolved mammals he had dealt with in the past. Perhaps it was just as well as he had never been hired at Hogwarts; watching Quirrell teaching First Years DADA had been almost impossible to bear. Having to put up with students' idiocy would have probably led to inventing an entirely new order of punishment spells in sheer frustration.

She was going to be a work of art, when she was finished. Enhanced poison glands, a Dragon's immunity to spells, and she would live (as he would) forever, as she would become a Horcrux. Yaxley had recently heard through his old contacts in the Aurors that something big had happened down in the Unspeakables' lair. Their Chief had died, evidently from wearing a poisoned ring, and_ Dumbledore_ had been called in to deal with (really just destroy) the situation. It was hard to believe that didn't mean the Gaunt Ring was now one with the Ages, and that he was down one Horcrux. As he had wanted to always have at least five anchoring him, darling little Nagini was due for an upgrade soon. Being, after all, just a fairly non-descript little darling she wouldn't attract the attention of any rude opponents. His other Horcruxes had different types of protection. They were, besides having various compulsion and protective charms (both against magic and physical force), generally made from such valuable historical and magical objects that even if they were discovered they would be preserved as treasures by whatever tomb-robber found them. Only someone as barmy as Dumbledore would have just destroyed out of hand one of the treasures of the Peverell Family, subject of some of the central myths of the Wizarding World, and holders of the Deathly Hallows.

So, if someone was cunning enough to both figure out his other Horcruxes' identities (and steal such treasures from their greedy owners), and was strong of enough of magic and will to destroy them; would they ever think to look for a little brown snake (with the world's deadliest venom) hidden in Britain's woods?


	18. Chapter 18

I do not own, or receive any benefits, from the Harry Potter Properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 18: Why Can't We All…

By Larry Huss

Lord Voldemort looked at the mirror, and considered the future. He had to admit that he didn't look quite his best. Not as bad as just before he… discorporated the first time (Horcrux creation could really take a toll on a Wizard's looks), but certainly not how he wanted to look when he met diplomats and attended international meetings of Heads of State. There was no reason to get them all terrified of how much he had surpassed the limits of humanity, at least until he had finished making Wizarding Britain into the weapon of his desires. So, a makeover was clearly in order. The Philosopher's Stone producing the Elixir of Life would have been nice, but that boat had sailed for now. Unicorn blood was horrid tasting, and a dose lasted for such a short time. There was, of course, another long lasting and real way of changing one's appearance. One known to any master of the Dark Arts worth his damnation. In olden days it had tended to stir up quite a fuss, and that tended to attract a bit too much attention for it to be used without interference, but…

A letter to dear Severus, perhaps have it delivered to him indirectly? Yes, he was just the man to prepare the potion, and he should also be in a wonderful position to be able to select and secure the other major needed ingredient. Ah, Countess Erzsebet! If only you had known where you had gone wrong you could have gotten so much better results, and only used a fraction of the… cattle you had ultimately expended. Magery marches on, and now someone more worthy would become Forever Beautiful.

?

The next day, an undistinguished owl delivered an envelope at breakfast to Messalina Burke (Third Year, Slytherin), a student at the justly famed Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. She was in regular post communication with her affectionate family, who kept a well-known shop on Knockturn Alley in London, and her receiving a letter from them caused no particular notice or comment. Inside was a short note indicating that all was well at home, the cat's kittens had all been placed in good homes, and that the envelope that had accompanied the letter should be quietly passed to her Head of House. Messalina had heard of similar communications in the past and felt pride that she had been selected for such a responsible task. Later that day she accomplished her mission, and virtuously kept her silence about it forevermore. But her dorm-mates and friends noticed a certain extra spring in her step for the next week or so.

Severus Snape, the House Head involved in this episode of covert communication, opened the envelope he had been given and read it as soon as he had reached a place of sufficient privacy. Why the devil would the Dark Lord want three shipments of 9 gallons each of the Fluunt Lenis Potion, spaced out a month apart? A drop or two would keep a sauce from curdling; a bigger dose had medicinal uses in keeping blood from coagulating in the veins of those with cardiac conditions. It was a useful potion, magically neutral in most circumstances, but its short shelf life meant that St Mungo's mostly used other potions that could be stockpiled for longer storage. With one thing or another, that much ordered could only make sense if three large batches of some fluid had to be treated, but the quantities would have to involve dozens of gallons of stuff. And then it hit him, the reason, and that he had finally reached his ultimate limit on how far he could go as a double agent. Some things… some things just couldn't be allowed, no matter how much of a misanthropic spy in deep cover you were.

When Snape brought his conclusions to Albus Dumbledore, he received no support for his proposal that the potion delivery should be done in a hand-carried format, with Tri-Nitro-Glycerin substituted for the Fluunt Lenis, and a bit of clumsiness at the end. Oh, his conclusions about what the potion was for was too obvious to deny, but Albus assured him that the Greater Good applied not only to the casualties of this generation of Wizards, but to the future ones that must be preserved by careful calculation and precise timing of counter-strikes. With the assurances that this ploy of the Dark Lord would be foiled, in the proper time and way, Severus Snape left the Headmaster's office.

Once back in his apartment Snape carefully and logically wrote down the three ways that the current situation he had been placed in could be handled. Each had their pros and cons put down, and the likelihood that a successful resolution could be achieved. Then he carefully burnt the list that involved playing along with the Dark Lord's request until the last moment (or perhaps a bit after the last moment) was reached before striking. The remaining two schemes were really the only the only ones that could possibly have a conclusion that_ he _could risk.

Accordingly, he prepared a special order for the potions ingredients necessary to produce 9 gallons of Tri-nitro-glycerin, and then sent Harry Timmons a note telling the boy that he was being given a detention for an unspecified malfeasance. Timmons was incurably inquisitive, and exceptionally observant. He was also in the same House as the Bones girl, whose aunt was head of the Aurors. Having her discover things directly would be too obvious; having Timmons discover his Potions Professor's lamentable breach of security, and passing the information on to her (which was the reasonable thing for him to do) would be far more believable. She, of course, would involve her Aunt, leading to some awkwardness, but also certainly meaning he could turn Ministry's Evidence at the highest level, where he might avoid being ratted out to Voldemort by some spy in the lower ranks of the Aurors. A fool-proof plan to appease Albus, if the truth ever came out. No… no betrayal, just a bit of sloppiness from an overworked agent.

?

Lupin was glad that he had kept his home a (mostly) no-magic zone. His state-of-the-art electronic communications connections meant that he could do at least a third of his work at home, while helping Philly with keeping the house going. Mind you, her temper was exceptionally short due to lack of sleep, but he was sure that when the Twins were old enough to sleep through the night the make-up sex would be worth it. It's important to keep a perspective, after all.

The items from the safe were being dealt with in a profitable enough manner, but the facts about the whole case still didn't add up to him. Why, after decades in a dormant state, did it suddenly start grabbing things again? What was the key factor in that? Lupin didn't realize that a slow grin began to cover his face at the prospect of doing a bit more snooping about down at **Gruber's Antiques and Antiquities**.

From out in the yard he heard Phyllidia and Mrs. Anderson cooing over the twins, while in the hammock he had set up between two trees old Mr. Anderson gently creaked back and forth in slumber. Lupin glanced at the short note in his hand, the start of what would no doubt be another of Harry's adventures. Evidently, Snape had either become (finally) what Sirius Black would have considered his normal fate as an arbitrary sadist, or he was under some unusual strain, giving students detentions for no reason at all. No doubt another owl would be winging southward within a day or so with the results of Harry's initial investigations. The boy would have to be given a good talking to. He thought that the detective racket was fun and exciting (admittedly, much as a teenaged Lupin had in his time), instead of being mostly waiting in the cold and wet with an aching bladder, and discovering sordid little secrets that were created by sordid little people. Saving lives, protecting reputations, and solving lovely little puzzles like the **Gruber **case were by far the least of a P.I.'s case-load. Though they did tend to make up for all the scutwork…

?

Professor Snape was being positively nasty, which was odd. Usually Harry Timmons had found the Potions Master to be sometimes a little high-strung, and always a perfectionist, but a decent enough sort to those who didn't fool around or were excessively 'Griff' (like the Weasley Twins). Tonight he was definitely worried about something, and taking it out on an unusual chew-toy.

Take that whole detention thing. Harry knew he had done nothing even remotely qualifying to cause it, and Snape should have known that all he had to do was ask if he needed another pair of hands. Something was very fishy about the setup, it was… almost theatrical the way the teacher was pacing back and forth, reading some piece of correspondence (even from here Harry could tell it wasn't a standard piece of scroll-paper). The too-loud murmuring under his breath that the House-elves would be the best way to destroy the letter was too-obviously meant to be overheard. For Harry, the real question was whether or not it was a test of his honesty, or an awkward hint to pay attention to how the paper was disposed of.

?

Severus Snape realized that he had been deluding himself for years; the Timmons boy was a complete idiot, and blind as a bat besides! He was scuttling about, doing each menial and meaningless task he was told to do with the usual cheerful and stereotypical Hufflepuff grin on his face. He had not even glanced when the letter and envelope had been tossed into the wastebasket. In fact, he had gone over to the other side of the room and climbed up on a chair to dust something on a high shelf, muttering about the House-Elves never really doing a good job on places too far above their sight-line. Nothing for it, then, but to go to the loo and give the idiot a perfect opportunity.

When he got back, after leisurely washing his hands, and listening intently but vainly for the sound of a scraping chair or summoning spell, Snape casually walked over to his desk and glanced at the waste paper, still up to the same damn level. What did a man have to do around here to be robbed? The Professor began to pace in frustration, until a few moments later he heard the sickeningly cheery "All done sir!" and saw the boy clamber down. Timmons was dismissed with a snarl, and politely left the private potions workshop off the Slytherin Commons without even slamming the door, despite the rudeness he had been subjected to.

Snape sat down at his desk and briefly cradled his head in his hands. If he went directly to the Aurors he was certain he would be betrayed, as well as the cause he was willing to die for. Well, if he had to die, he could at least go out with a bang, taking the snake-golem-revenant with him. He reached over to the wastebasket to read the letter one more time, to confirm his sense of purpose. It was missing. There was the rest of the day's trash in it, just not one certain letter and one certain envelope. Oh… so neatly done!

How…? Well, magic, of course! Timmons and Charms. Tops in his year, and if Filius was to be believed something of a prodigy. How it was done _exactly_ escaped Snape; after all, could even the best Fifth Year do a silent, wandless, Accio? Perhaps…

On going through the basket a final time to confirm victory, Snape noticed there were several blank pieces of parchment. Perfectly good, but unused, and the teacher could think of no reason they should have ended up in that location. On consideration there was one possibility; Timmons. Perhaps some self-developed substitution method? And the student had played his usual, carefree self to perfection while doing it.

Severus Snape went to bed relieved that night, with only one small, nagging, question on his mind. How could that boy be a 'Puff?

?

"It's driving me crazy. On the tip of your tongue is nothing compared to at the edge of your memory!"

There was an unusual note of desperation in Harry Timmons' voice as he sat between joy on one side and happiness on the other. Or, in other words, between Padma Patil and Hermione Granger on the couch looking out of the open window of Raven's Nest onto the vista of the Forbidden Forest. Hermione looked over to her best friend with increasing concern; no matter how they tried to reassure the boy that they were there for him, he just didn't seem to be calming down.

Padma leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek (now wasn't the time to get serious. That would be after they weathered this storm) and said: "So, Lieutenant, what do you want _us_ to do about it?"

He gave them both a quick squeeze, and stood up, unconsciously assuming the braced position of someone volunteering for a really bad mission. In the tone of voice of someone agreeing with his doctor that, yes, the leg _would_ have to come off at the knee, he took a breath and began.

"I would like you to dose me with a potion to enhance memory, and interrogate me. I'd do it all myself, but it feels like time matters a lot, and it would take too much time to figure out and make the potions. And anyway, playing around with your own mind can get very weird, and get you off the track. There are only six people I'd trust to do it, and you two are the only ones I'm sure of who could do the work and are here."

Hermione protested, "The Headmaster must be better qualified, in fact there are rumors that he can just look into your eyes and read your thoughts and memories, and all."

"Dumbledore? I said trusted!" For just a second a cynical expression crossed Harry's face.

"In two days skive off from Quidditch practice and meet us here. Bring what you want questioned about with you. And don't think your won't owe us, Timmons. Or that we won't collect!" Padma's firm voice was belied by her warm grin as she said that, and Timmons first giving her a small, stiff, quick bow seemed to be taking orders from his (temporary) commanding officer.

He then advanced and conducted a very unmilitary way of saying farewell, first to Miss Patil, and then with Miss Granger, each taking several minutes. Then a much more relaxed young man smilingly left two flushed-faced young ladies, who then collapsed back onto the couch with contented sighs.

"So, 'Mione, we're deep into Phase Three aren't we?"

"We are such putty in his hands, Padma. I'm amazed that we haven't been taken immoral advantage of by now. We've certainly given him every hint that we're ready for it. And I could tell…"

"I know, he was plastered pretty tight to me, also. We'd better get to work, though; still an hour before the Library closes, with some luck we could find something useful to work on. You know, I really didn't have anything in mind when I gave him his marching orders. It was just getting back at him for all the times he's given us dictates and deadlines. It really _is_ fun, though. It's time we had him start to march to the tune of our little drums, don't you think?

"So, should I invite my parents up for the next Hogsmeade Weekend, 'Mione? Do you think it's time that they met him?"

The young ladies left the room, which swiftly went back to whatever and wherever it was between the times it was Raven's Nest. Shortly thereafter a slender and cheerful blond witch summoned Raven's Nest again, and walked over to one of her contributions to the decorations: a painting of a parrot her father had sent at her request. Taking a cracker out of a pocket of her school robes she brought it up to the painted bird's beak. For an instant a brightly feathered red and yellow head came out of the frame, and grabbed the morsel. Then, at the blonde's urging ("Hermione said…"), she received an abbreviated version of the previous fifteen minutes (including some verbal observations on observations that, frankly, made her slightly jealous) of the conversation and byplay.

As Lovegood left the room she once again pondered on how lucky she was to have such a wonderful father. He hadn't stinted in sending her his copy of the magical painting of Aunt Carmen's wonderfully intelligent familiar, Panchitto, even though it was a family heirloom. When Aunt Carmen had wanted to commemorate her dear, lost companion she had gone to Brazil's greatest magical artist, and the results showed how well he deserved his reputation. As she went back to her shared bedchamber Luna was also happy that she had learned all about Panchitto's abilities before she had hung it up _there_. A girl had to have some privacy, after all!

?

"This is an exact copy of the item; the original has been sent to a… reliable expert for further evaluation. It reminds me of something, something important. I just can't figure out what. It's somewhere in my past, but I don't know exactly where, or how far back. It's… it's scary, whatever it is. And important. I need my secrets kept, I'll be destroyed otherwise, and that's why I trust only you for this. Please, please keep whatever you hear private and don't release anything unless I agree. I really, really mean it."

The two witches nodded to each other. Harry Timmons, man of mystery, was a frequent topic of their discussions. Padma, holding the potion, was a little surprised when she saw a strange look in Hermione's eyes at Harry's statement and confession. This looked like a perfect time to get the complete lowdown on him, while he was under the control of the potion. Hermione gave a little snort, and nodded to Padma to give Harry his medicine. As he knocked it back, Hermione gave him a briefing and set of instructions.

"The potion is a mixture of hypnotics and memory enhancers. We're going to take you back in your memories very far. You're going to answer our questions honestly, and remember everything you say. You will understand everything you say, even though you may use cloaked or symbolic meanings that we might not know. That's for your protection. If we discover anything about you it won't be because we raped your mind, just that we're clever enough to riddle things out. That's our right as Ravenclaws, and_ as_ _your girlfriends._ But in any case, whatever you say will be your secrets, and we won't tell anyone, unless you let us."

As the potent fluids began to course through his system Padma turned to her friend (and almost sister) and tried to clear up some points that had evidently not been clearly covered in their pre-interrogation conversations together.

"'Mione, I thought we were going to solve all our Timmons uncertainties in one fell swoop tonight. What's with the permission to use verbal camouflage you gave him? Though I do like the way you let him know that we're not fooling around with him; that's fair enough."

"Harry can't resent us if we use our heads, but he's put his trust in us, we can't just run wild through his mind. We're in it for the long haul with him, we have to…I guess just be decent if we want this to work right."

After a second, Padma nodded. "But we can work it out for ourselves, so you'll want to be on your toes, Lieutenant, if you want to keep us from figuring things out. And you know how good we are at that!"

The boy felt himself going deeper and deeper into a detached state, with thoughts and memories coming together in jumbled knots. He so wanted to get up from his chair and start snogging his two girls (so nice of Hermione to confirm what he had been hoping for), but there remained the purpose for this whole scene. Having been practicing Occlumency from an early age he had molded his mind into a fairly impenetrable maze, one that even he sometimes had trouble navigating. He knew he needed more than their potion making skills to find what he needed. Using deceptive words, even without lying, was second nature to him. He wondered if when he was completely himself again he would be happy or unhappy if they managed to figure him out. In one way it would be such a relief…

Hermione was at one of the desks, quill in hand. At the other, Padma's DictaQuill stood ready to take down everything that was said, using different slants for various voices. The girls had decided that having two copies of the conversation, with two different modes (living mind and spell alone) of transcription would be best. Padma pulled a stool over to Harry, sat on it, and opened up a folded sheet of parchment and began the inquiry.

"Start at the beginning, when you first noticed the first hint of the current problem," Padma began.

When did it all start; when? At the beginning, when Halloween became the night of mourning.

"He killed them with Green…

"Unlawfully caged the Hound suffered…

"The Bumbler more ensnared them…

"The noble Wolf rescued them all…

?

Two hours later Harry came out from the effects of the potion. He had concealed all the names, and used metaphors to conceal everything important, but he knew that sooner or later his twisting trail would be unraveled. It was frightening, and a bit liberating. Right now, though, his throat was parched and he was more exhausted than after a full day of football matches. The girls were almost as far gone, though in their cases it was because even through his verbal thickets they had caught some sights of a life that wasn't quite as serene and constantly cheerful and safe as they had imagined.

"Thank you Padma, Hermione. Now I know. You deserve this straight, I think. I've recently seen a note in Tom Riddle's hand, written within the last few days.

"Oh, and I am pleased and honored to be your boyfriend. I just hope I can keep up with you both."

"What are potions for, if not things like that?" Hermione asked. Padma nodded in perfect agreement. Harry grinned. After all, these were probably the two best potion makers outside of the advanced class. And they would no doubt be at the head of that when they were eligible to enroll.

He gave them each a short kiss, and left. It was late and he really wasn't up for investigating his newly discovered social status right then.

"I guess I'm Night's Delight, and you're Dawn's Light." Padma said. She was far from unhappy at how Harry had described what she thought were Hermione and herself.

"He's given us everything you know. Especially at the end, he was hardly even trying to hide things, I think." Hermione replied.

"I'm not sure I follow you, 'Mione. Even with the notes it'll take weeks to track down all the allusions and things. Psychological symbols are also a bit personal; we might get badly sidetracked by some of them."

"No, we have everything we need. We'll talk about it later; perhaps it would be better to let him figure out how vulnerable he is and just let him tell us straight out. Now I see how we had all the important pieces years ago and just never put it together."

With that Hermione moved towards the WC part of the Room. She was sweaty and tense; a few minutes under the best shower this side of Edinburgh would be just the thing. She dropped her clothes onto a bench, put a bathrobe from the stand over them, and a thick towel on top. Then she opened the curtain and saw Luna Lovegood sitting on a stool behind the curtain, flexing her cramping hand after having filled up most of a notebook with her transcription of the Timmons' Interview.

Hermione's automatic clutching at certain places for modesty's sake was purely reflexive. Years of sharing a bedroom, and sometimes a shower, had removed any sensitivity she had ever had at being seen unclothed by her own sex. So it took merely a few instants for her to get her wits about her, and call out. "Padma! Wands! Hurry!"

Luna, surprised at being discovered, had barely began reaching for her wand by the time she was covered by those of one surprised (and clothed witch), and one angry (and rapidly chilling) one. With her hand as stiff as it was, she probably couldn't have gotten off a useful spell anyway, but to be caught so easily was extremely embarrassing (though in a way different from Hermione's case). She wondered briefly if she shouldn't have just continued to question the parrot, and hoped that it could remember enough for a proper reconstruction of the scene. Certainly what she had heard Harry Timmons say had been fascinating, as well as scary (Riddle was still around!). The worst thing she could imagine at the moment could occur; not cruel and bruising curses ,or even a rough Muggle-style beat-down, but Hermione and Padma not liking her anymore!

Several minutes later, Luna realized that a Muggle-style beat-down and a series of painful (even if not very damaging) curses might indeed be worse than a mere bout of emotional withdrawal by her best friends at school. The fact that her arms were now tied behind her back, and suspended by a rope to a beam above her, probably didn't help, either. As long as she kept up on her tip-toes she was alright, but she could feel her toes aching, and the muscles of her calves beginning to quiver. She had never expected Hermione to have quite so much vindictiveness in her.

Finally, Padma came back from the dorms, with the last of the potion mix that they had used on Harry Timmons earlier that evening. The bath-robed Hermione (white, terry-cloth, and just a bit below the knees) let Luna down into a previously placed chair, and retied her arms to the backrest supports. Luna was very eager to drink the stuff and let the questions flow. Whether or not confession was good for the soul, she was becoming increasingly sure that confession was at least likely not to have her shoulder joints dislocated. She had not been subjected to anything _at all_ like the smoldering, erotic bondage of Chapter 9. Luna was glad the potion was not too bad-tasting; she had indulged in a hearty dinner that night and had no desire to spew, especially as she had a sneaking suspicion that she would have to clean it up by herself later, the hard way.

"How long have you been spying on us, and sneaking around and taking our things? You dirty little thief!" Hermione thought she had recognized the mechanical pencil Luna had been using as one that she had been missing for the last week or more. In her anger she had perhaps forgotten it was one from a shipment from her parents that had ended up being borrowed fairly widely in Ravenclaw, once the utility of Muggle stationary products had begun to be appreciated.

"Right after I was rescued, I had so much time on my hands since Harry and Neville were so bloody honorable and refused to take up my offers. I mean it was pretty clear, one or the other, preferably both, maybe at once. But noooo… Misters Nice Guy. Then I realized it was because I was just a girl, and you're already women with figures and everything and you had this secret book… "

Padma and Hermione soon realized several things: firstly, that it was harder than they had thought for novices to keep proper control over an interrogation when the subject was under the influence of drugs. Harry had spoiled them, with his neatly ordered mind and deep desire to say things that would solve his problem. Secondly, that Luna's mind and thoughts were less like a railway line that went from station to station, with only a few switching points, than it was like a spider web with an nearly infinite number of places to wander off into other directions than the one of interest to the questioners at the moment.

Hermione was starting to feel guilty. As far as Luna's transgressions were concerned, for an energetic Hogwarts' student there was more of the nature of a harmless prank about them than any hostility or treachery. Those last four Stinging Hexes to the torso had really been going over the line. And she _had_ been passing out the pencils pretty freely, after all.

By the time the questioning (and the potion) was done, Padma and Hermione were long past good cop/bad cop and doing sympathetic therapist/understanding bartender. Luna had been untied, and at Padma's insistence been included in the Harry Timmons Analysis Group, with the same restrictions on disseminating information as the others. Except she wasn't in on the girlfriend part, and she was obligated to tell Harry about how she had gotten mixed up in it all. Including accepting any punishment he might give her.

The only thing Luna really regretted by the time they snuck up to their tower was that her promises of secrecy probably covered the tid-bit that_ both_ her older friends were acknowledged as Timmons' girlfriends. Being the first to get that bit of news out into the corridors would have firmly cemented her as Queen of Gossip for the rest of the year.

?

On what meats had she supped on, to grow so great and so quickly? Spells of green death and unholy preservation. Fragments of a fractured soul. Choice dainties from a Dark Lord's hand, frantic white mice confined in a box, a potion-paralyzed quivering brown hare. And now she was as strong in venom, as long in length as any natural best of her race and type. No longer could she live as a pampered pet alone; only the rituals of life and death, of hunting and killing, would allow her to surpass nature and become what the magical potential forced into her could allow her to be. She entered the great world beyond the walls and rooms of human dwellings.

In the forests and woods she hunted at night, as unusual _for_ an adder as she was _as_ one. There were risks there, ones that her master/owner/soul mate never realized. But these were things she had to dare, to become able to use his loving gifts (from himself to himself, in a way) as they were meant to be. Once a moon-white owl, her destiny stolen by fate, swooped down upon the serpent only to succumb to her poison and abnormally long strike. Nagini grew at least a half handspan from that meal alone, by the time she woke from her long-sated slumber.

And as the night cooled she stretched out often on a sun-warmed spot and dreamed her dreams of sapience and slaughter.


	19. Chapter 19

I do not own, or receive any profit from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 19: When a body…

By Larry Huss

Lupin carefully drove the heavily loaded van another hundred yards down the rural road and pulled over to the side. After checking both ways, he left the cab of the van and went to the next bunch of Muggle-averting runes and disabled them, brought their physical components back, and loaded them in the rear section. There an antique safe sat, stripped of almost all its spells of acquisition and concealment. He had done the other end of the road earlier that afternoon, and now another section of Britain's road system was back in operation, and the inhabitants (and those just passing through) of Surrey would find getting from point A to point B a lot easier than it had been for the last few months.

He had asked Filius to leave just one spell on the old thing (promised to Gringotts Auction Division for sale), and had one added. Its charging spell was still in place, and the one that had been added allowed Lupin to monitor it and see if it was pulling in anything. Right now there was virtually no magic in the thing, but Lupin had a suspicion that he knew how to change that status. To prove his hypothesis he was (now that his services to the British motoring public were finished) heading back to the vicinity of **Gruber's**, where that condition should change rapidly.

Once back in London he parked the van, and checked the safe. Yes, charging up nicely. He got out, and began to take sightings on significant buildings and landmarks. Being a Wizard he saw a few that even the most observant regular Londoner would have missed. Straight edge and pencil on a map quickly gave him a reference point. With this marked he got back into the vehicle and drove it away for a time, and then back into the area where the safe began charging up again. Another mark and sighting line was penciled in. He'd be back that evening (unless things started to cloud up) concealed and on a broom, and that should be the end to the little intellectual puzzle that had been bothering him for the last few days.

?

Padma Patil was becoming disturbed as she worked with Miss Lovegood on pinning down what Harry Timmons had been getting at in his long and allegorical ramble through his life. For the life of her, she couldn't see how Hermione could have figured everything out, or what that 'everything' was about, either. Perhaps it was that both Hermione and Harry had grown up in the Muggle world. Perhaps it meant that there was a bond between them, an understanding that Padma could never share. If that was the case she'd have to give up love, and move to one of the ascetic sororities that inhabited especially storm-wracked and damp islands, and worked at being navigational hazards. She hoped instead that Hermione was just being bloody brilliant as usual, or if not that, mistaken. Padma had no desire for a steady diet of eye-of-newt soup, and a conversation limited to, "So… drown anybody interesting today?"

Hermione had been doing some research herself, but she had been avoiding the books on dream analysis, psychological symbolism, and the interpretation of prophecy that should have been her sources. Instead she just wandered around idly looking up old school yearbooks, and talking to people. Professors mainly, including their Head of House. Then, walking away she would sometimes nod her head, and when next getting together with her usual crew would only smile an enigmatic and infuriating grin. Eventually, when Luna was at a class, and they were alone near the lake, Padma had enough.

"Alright, Granger! You said we'd talk, this is a pretty good place for it."

"You're especially cute when you're enraged, Padma. Us getting along so well lately almost made me forget that. You'll have to let Harry see you like this again; I'm sure he'll do anything to take the fire out of your eyes. I didn't want to say anything when Luna or the others were around, and I had to make sure, and you _are_ so much fun when you're simmering. But…our Harry isn't who we think he is. He's not a criminal heir or a foreign Prince. He's more of a domestic one. He's Harry Potter."

"Pull the other one, Granger!" It was amazing how much gravely menace a teenage girl could put in her voice, when she had a mind to.

"'He killed them with Green.' It was the Death Curse, Padma. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is the only candidate _I _would propose. 'The Bumbler more ensnared them.' Dumbledore, of course! The Headmaster started arranging people's lives… for their own good, of course. And it got everything into a snarl. As if we haven't seen that happen!"

It was true that the Headmaster's occasional forays into inter-House relations had been more likely to provoke a smallish riot than to lead to a reduction in tensions. His playing of favorites had been noted and commented upon. Plus his actions during the periods of Quirrell's employment, the Troll Incident, the Chamber of Secrets (and Riddle's Diary), and proposing to keep Lockhart on for a second year all pointed to someone taking delight in long and complicated schemes of dubious practicality. After all, the girls themselves had wanted to avoid direct contact with him (when he should have been their first resource) in the Affair of the Ravenclaw Tiara.

To be fair, Dumbledore was often less guilty than they supposed of these complex snarls. Lockhart's almost-renewal of employment was merely an attempt to keep the DADA position filled without another long and disappointing job-search. As much as anything, being _Dumbledore _he was expected to pull miracles out of his hat at regular intervals. Being merely human instead he had, at least among those who saw him daily, proven merely a great Wizard, and an indifferent administrator and educator. He was unable to live up to the superlative expectations created by the reputation he had so long cultivated. Still, he had made his bed…

"'The Bumbler sent him to the House of Hunger, the wolf rescued him.' Wolf, Padma? Harry's Lupin, without a doubt. Rescuing people left and right, including some we never hear about, I'm sure.

"And do you know who Lupin's best friend in school was? James Potter, Harry Potter's father who was killed by V… Him! And then Harry P disappeared, and Harry T has someone who he can call on at any time for help, like a close friend of the family who _just_ happens to be James Potter's best friend! I don't know exactly about the 'Hound,' but I could tell that Professor McGonagall knows something about that; she smiled when I talked to her about the pack Lupin ran around with, and about our Harry, and remember hearing about the Great Pet Hunt? They caught Pettifog… or whatever his name was… who could change into a rat and really betrayed the Potters and oh my God people can change into animals and I bet the Hound was some innocent and I can't say anything more because I think I know who it was and I've said too much." Hermione now had a panicked look on her, and had to take long, deep breaths after finishing.

Padma smiled, now _that_ was the Hermione she knew and loved; building so much intellectual speed that she cracked the Logic Barrier, passing into some place of rarified truth and inspired hyper-reality, as well as hyperventilation. As to their Harry being _that_ Harry…

"He's a year too old. He's in Hogwarts, which means that they sent him an invitation; I don't see the Book of Names and the Sorting Hat being in any conspiracy, do you? And anyway, he wrote that lovely poem in the newspaper about how much we owe Harry Potter. You know _our _Harry is way too modest to say things like that about himself!'

Hermione smiled, and licked her dialectical chops. "Remus Lupin is the premier magical detective in Britain; we've both heard that even the Aurors call him in on cases. If the country's best man at finding out things hasn't figured out a thing or two about creating a false identity, I'd say he's been wasting his time. Getting into school a year early? That would be a basic part of a disguise.

"And, I don't really know a good way to break it to you, Padma, so you'll just have to take your medicine straight… I read that poem, and it is the most subtly sarcastic piece of character assassination and ridicule composed by a Hogwarts student that I've ever seen!"

"Better than Zabini's 'Ode to Draco?'"

"The first letter of each line of Harry's poem forms an acrostic. Work it out, Padma."

The Witch did, for the amount she remembered, and started laughing. She had never been too much for this poetry stuff before, perhaps there was more to it than she had thought. With the way she could do crossword puzzles…

"Anyway," Hermione continued, "Harry saying 'poisoned Mask fled before living one, revenge a part enacted.' You've heard about Quirrell being possessed. Those things never end well, so it was a 'poisoned mask.' And Harry Timmons is our Harry's living mask, 'cause he's not just pretending to be a student or anything, he's living the life. We know that Quirrell's Leap happened when he was caught on a stair between Professor Vector down below, and Lupin _with a student_ up above him. And we know who the student was, don't we?"

Padma said reasonably, "'Mione, that just proves that the Lieutenant was there, not that he's Potter. After all, our Harry is of the age to have lost his parents to the Death Eaters. And they were killing both Wizard and Muggle families and kids. So _Harry Timmons_ having a grudge towards He-Who is perfectly reasonable, anyway. Though… if that was the case… I can think of only one time where the parents were killed, and a child was spared. But now we're really talking about more research, and even then the newspapers might have mixed things up.

"Really the only _physical_ proof there is, I think, is his eyes, maybe."

Hermione looked at her friend, and made a little gesture with her hand saying 'so, get on with it!'

Padma complied: "Sometimes, when the light hits them just the right way, they sort of glisten for a second. He's wearing contact lenses; they do that, you know.

"A few years back Parvati and Lav were gossiping all the time about getting some with designs on them to wear for special occasions. Silver spirals, cat's eyes, polka dots; things like that. So, basically, you can use contacts to make yourself look different. Mom put the hammer down on that idea pretty quickly, anyway.

"But… all those Harry Potter dolls they used to sell had that vivid green in their eyes. And how do you explain the Lieutenant not having the scar? Except for the scar, that was one of the only things that never changed on them, no matter what else did; vivid green eyes. Our Harry's eyes are just _sort of_ greenish. To be fair though, I'm certain that you could get purely functional contacts that could change your eye color that much. Wizarding contacts don't do all the wonderful things you read about in **Teen Witch**, but they do have special spells that keep them in if you get hit with a usual sort of Finite spell. So they would be good as a disguise, as long as you don't try to make them too different than your usual color.

"And back when Parvati was real active in being a pain she tried to make Harry out to be this real vain poser, 'cause he dyed his hair. She said she could tell from the places he didn't always reach. We could examine him really closely; do a complete physical on him to check. Since he doesn't make himself up as a spectacle, doing that would be a way of being a disguise from people recognizing him from the dolls. Little things.

"But why wouldn't he want to be known as Harry Potter, anyway? He'd be rich, have a seat in the Wizengamot, and girls mailing him their undies. What's not for a teenage boy to love?"

Hermione frowned. "Do you think that Harry Potter would have survived to his fourth year of Hogwarts if he was out in the open? We know some Death Eaters either hid out, or slithered through at the time of He-Who's disappearance. All that sneering the Bottomless Pit makes about Malfoy… Forge and Gred have hinted that there might be something behind that, they just don't think it's fair to beat up on the kid. Pettigrew… there, I remembered his name… hid out. I bet others did to. And there are other Dark Wizards, like Riddle, who would have been eager to impress people by offing the Boy Who Lived. Harry Timmons misses all that.

"In fact, He-Who must have been the one who was possessing Quirrell, to make Harry's story work out. So it isn't just the Boy-Who-Lived, it's also the Dark-Lord-Who-Lived. Didn't **The Prophet** make some snide remarks about the Headmaster suggesting something like that? _Not_ being Harry Potter could be a very-life enhancing thing, I think.

"As far as the money, he seems to have it anyway. Hello! Customized broom and all new stuff? And if you think that he has a serious lack of feminine lingerie being sent him; as soon as I get some suitable things I volunteer to repair _that_ lack."

"So, our shopping trip over the Summer Holidays is still on?" Padma asked.

"So long as our folks don't find out exactly what we're actually buying with our birthday money, everything's fine."

"Hermione, I admit you've raised some questions in my mind. I'm going to resolve them. Take arms against a sea of doubt…and everything. I'll go right to the source, and get my answers directly. He won't have a chance!"

Hermione's concern and envy was plain in her voice. "You're not going to hit him with full Phase Three, are you?"

Padma had only one reply for that: "Sometimes a Witch has to do what a Witch has to do!"

?

Phyllidia had made him a dual baby-carrier to wear, and on nights when the twins were colicky he would strap it on and give them a good fly for an hour or two. It quieted them down and put them to sleep, the noise of the wind in their ears was better than any wind-up music box or lullaby coming from a Spelled stuffed animal. Cesar was sure that they would be holy terrors on the field when they got to Quidditch playing years. Remus didn't care much about that. After a good flight he could put them to bed, and they would last the night asleep. Frequently, his exhausted wife would be sleeping on the couch; he would pull a blanket up over her and settle in for the night in the reclining chair next to it. In the morning he would usually wake up with her already fixing breakfast, with a lot more spring in her step.

Tonight he felt triumphant, as well as glowing with fatherhood, as he felt the children squirm a bit and start to doze off. He had cracked the case of the Goblin Safe, completely!

Earlier in the year he had noticed when he was negotiating with the Bank that they were doing some sort of underground excavations. The crews of workers going through the Lobby of the Bank, dressed and acting so different than the bankers had been a dead give-away. The excavated spoil could be Disappeared, or the Goblin equivalent, but the workers had to leave the place physically and from the only exit from the building (that was admitted to, at least). Goblins weren't supposed to be able to use Apparition, and their Floo connections were few, and only in the offices of those who wouldn't take well to have all that dust and litter dragged through their carpeted suites. All these things were obvious from a security viewpoint.

But now Lupin knew where the new excavation was being done, and if he had happened to be on the other side of the law he could had been the first person (who was not possessed by a powerful Dark Lord)to break into Gringotts and escape alive. With all the work going on, there was no way all of the normal protections and wards were in place yet. It would be a piece of cake to burrow down from someplace in Muggle London, where the activation of old Goblin enchantments on the safe showed that Goblin Magic was being expended, and crack open some vault or other. It might even be possible to do a little reconnaissance or judicious bribery to get an idea what vaults were most accessible from the construction area, and hit one of the richest ones. Then just escape into Muggle London using all the ways to throw off tracking that both Muggle and Magical art had devised.

That day, and night, he had been able to use the safe, and a little simple triangulation, to figure out what should be the length and direction of the shaft, and where at least several of the partially excavated vaults were under construction. Should he tell Cesar, or would the urge to top the wildest of Marauder stunts overwhelm him? Now that he thought of it, Lupin realized he really didn't have much choice, he had promised both Cesar and Filius that he found anything that was interesting and new about the case he would let them in on it. He'd just have to hope that common sense… and Filius' wand… would be enough to keep Cesar from risking Azkaban again.

The twins were well settled in now; if he turned his head he could hear little noises, too small and cute to properly be called snores, but still the kind of thing that parents like to check in on from time to time with their children. Reassured, his mind went onto other things.

The business was doing well enough. None of the spectacular and gloriously billable cases were coming in, but the work was steady. He personally didn't much care which rock star was sleeping with which politician, or who was seen with their hands in all the wrong places with whom, but it kept the bills paid. Currently the biggest thing they had going on was surveillance on a junior bank executive who seemed to be living a bit (say, three times) beyond their official means. McCartny was handling that quite well, and should be in for a bonus if things turned out the way that Lupin expected.

Hmm, it seemed to be clouding up. He had Rain-Repelling Charms on the broom, of course. But lightning was always a possibility, and he could write Cesar and Filius short notes when he got back. He turned the broom about. As he neared home he saw a light shining through an open upstairs window. No place like home indeed.

?

Sitting comfortably in her usual spot in Raven's Nest, she heard the door open. Hermione Granger looked up from the book, **Keeping Anubis at Bay (a practical guide to not getting dead)**, by J. O'Neill, that she had been reading to distract herself while Padma had been either paying the ultimate price… or having fun… while getting the straight truth out of Harry Whoever-He-Was. From the smile on her friend's face, Hermione didn't have much doubt which it was. Padma tossed her school robe over the back of a chair, and took a running jump onto the couch next to Hermione.

"Once again the famous Granger brains show their merit. It took a lot of persuasion to get him to come clean, and you wouldn't _believe_ the number and types of privacy spells he knows and can use, but he confessed, since we already knew. I even know where the scar went.

"I checked his hair; we'll be able to help him there. Even Parvati can get half of something right. The die job is a bit spotty around the roots. And I was right about the contacts; he took them out for me. Such eyes!

"He'll be up here later tonight, I sort of promised Wizard's Oaths, Perfect Form, to protect his secrets, the big one at least."

Hermione thought that Padma was being a little blasé about promising to swear an oath that would kill them if they broke it, or seriously tried to. There were a lot of so-called 'Wizard's Oaths' that were little more than promises and superstition. In the thousand-plus years her family had been Magical, Padma's ancestors had either learned, or invented, the 'Perfect Form.' It wasn't as neat and clean and easy to get roped into as the way most of such things were. It was based on the old ways of blood and pain and fire. Hermione had been near people that had sworn things Perfect Form, and they were definitely locked into something stronger than what passed, day-to-day, as an Oath. There was none of that slow loss of magic (that might just be psychological guilt) of the common variety Wizard's Oath, and death, when it came, wasn't from a falling piano ten years after a betrayal. Perfect Form was boiling blood, with an occasional side dose of earthquake crevasses swallowing you, and meteor strikes, PDQ.

Mind you, she hadn't _seen_ any meteor strikes, but she had gotten very good at evaluating the reliability of sources. The ones that talked of Perfect Form in disparaging terms, as something old fashioned and no longer needed with the advent of New and Improved Wizard's Oaths, had a good deal of the feeling known as "whistling past the graveyard." The ones that were of the tone "Are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, are your really, _really_ sure? Because you are going to be in for a world of hurt if you're just playing around with this stuff. Really sure?" definitely had the ring of authenticity to them. In the end, Hermione realized that she was going to keep Harry's secrets anyway, backing out of the Oath would just lose her all of his trust that she had been working to gain for years. Right now there were more important things to think about, anyway.

"Padma, you _do_ realize that all the buttons of your shirt are done up wrong? My mistake; all the buttons of some _boy's_ shirt that you're now wearing are done up wrong."

"In…teresting story about that, 'Mione…"

?

It wasn't his birthday, but Tom Riddle had just got the _bestest present_ _ever_! The undoubted, real, genuine, and authentic Staff of Merlin. Tall as its first Master (5'4", 163cm), reddish-brown yew from a grove that had been on the Isle of Anglesey when the Romans had come calling. As thick as a swordsman's wrist, and as smooth and as unmarked as the day it had been carved. It even had the traditional knob at the end. And Lucius Malfoy had gotten it, at great expense, for his Master. It had been presented to Riddle at dinner that day, along with a slightly plaintive hint that it would be so appreciated if Our Dear Lord would move his base of operations to another location for a little while. Tom was so grateful he actually almost considered doing so. If it wasn't for the fact that humiliating Malfoys was such an enduring delight, that a few murmured comments to Narcissa of how pretty she was looking these days had her checking for a window to jump out of (he really would have to get that Bathory Bath (1) scheduled), and that the Malfoys set the best table of all of his followers, he might have.

Still, it was very nice of dear Lucius, and Tom decided right there and then that young Draco was clean off the schedule for drainage, unless they were running very short. He'd just have Severus make up the shortfall with another brat from a hostile family. There, that was People Management at the highest level!

In fact, this whole year had been one of ever building strength and success. His body was coming along nicely, and little Nagini had looked so fine and healthy the last time she had come in to tell her Daddy of all the adventures she had been having. Somehow Riddle never tired of hearing how his creation and protégé was doing. It was a little embarrassing to admit he may have had made the smallest of mistakes, but in a way it was the fault of Britain itself. Its wildlife was so very meager, unvaried, and frankly, uninteresting. In so many other places of the world a poisonous snake two yards long would be nothing at all out of the ordinary. In pathetic Britain she was already twice the length of her relatives, and she was still a girl just beginning to get into her growth spurt. In a way her unrivaled growth was an indication how well his magic was finally meshing with his new body. The spells he had laid on her, woven through her fabric, would create something as long and heavy bodied as a Python, but with venom inferior only to the Basilisk itself. The idea of having a really impressive animal Horcrux had captured his imagination; it wasn't until Crabbe's rather dim-witted son had remarked that "You ain't going to mistake that thing for a fishing worm!" did Riddle realize that he had, perhaps, gone just a touch too far. Ah, well, the boy had screamed nicely for his implied criticism of Lord Voldemort's choice of a pet.

Nagini would be allowed the healthful outdoor life for the rest of this summer; it would give her the exercise she needed for strong bones (Eight Mystical Ways) and powerful muscles. By the autumn she should be about 12 or so feet long, and would enjoy being indoors for the cold season. Next spring… next spring, there was a good chance that five yards of her would be coiled around the feet of his Chair of State in London.

Thinking of his latest anchor to immortality spurred a thought. All the best Arithmantic authorities, or at least those that dealt with the rare and often forbidden subject of Blood Magic, agreed that the Law of Eight applied to the possibility of the division of the mind. Not that they had ever dared to attempt to actually work with it to its limits. You could develop and perceive up to eight separate senses at once, you could bond with up to seven familiars (your original form counting for the eighth), or control eight bodies with your divided conscience. Now that he thought of it the implication was obvious. The soul operated by the same rules, it was universally agreed. So… excluding your original spirit, you could create seven vessels for your soul's containment. He was cheating himself of a Horcrux by stopping with Nagini.

And for his last Horcrux, what could be more appropriate, what could be more fitting than for Wizarding Britain's first immortal ruler to use the Staff of Merlin? Its pristine condition after all this time more than hinted at the powerful spells of protection from mundane and magical threats already on it. Once he had fully mastered it he should have a magical focus equal or superior to the legendary Elder Wand. With his own customized protections applied (have to think carefully on what to use, carving up Merlin's Staff probably wouldn't play that well internationally) it would be something invulnerable, and a more than adequate replacement for the stick Pettigrew had lost for him all those years ago.

Hmmm, international considerations. There was no point on doing his first Bath, and then making another Horcrux and ruining all the cosmetic improvements, was there? He would send Severus a little note to delay collecting his fluid resources, until the strain of making a soul anchor was finished distorting his looks.

He'd have to clear his calendar; sometime in the next week a good period should open up. And Nott should be able to rustle up a fine sacrifice for the splitting by then. Everything was coming together; Lord Voldemort loved when that happened.

?

Lupin had left a message on Cesar's answering machine. When he had gotten home, and put the little ones to bed, Phyllidia had still been awake, and friendly in a sleepy and silly manner. That had been interrupted by one of the most weather-beaten Post Owls he could remember seeing showing up with Harry's latest message, delayed several days by some epic confusion of the usually inerrant sense of direction of the owl. After feeding it, and making as sure as he could that whatever problems it had had were now a thing of the past, he had sent it back up to Hogwarts with a short note to Filius on his discovery, and a bit from Harry's concerns, in case he hadn't already heard them. Then Remus had called Cesar, who was out doing something cultural for one of the periodicals he freelanced for. They would meet in the morning and discuss the several situations that seemed to be popping up simultaneously.

?

Willy Strongman had a full lorry load of furniture behind him, on its way to a showroom up north a ways. He was glad that he had gotten the word that the mysterious detour had been cleared up on the direct route from the warehouse to the clients his employer serviced. It would easily cut the travel time by a good twenty minutes each way; it was knowing how to maximize the use of little known back roads that had done so much toward letting him often stretch a half-hour official lunch break into a full hour or more while still on the clock. Willy completely agreed that knowing things was the route to freedom, and wealth also, if you included having a good bookie on your speed-dial when you had a sure thing.

When Willy saw what looked like a hose stretched half-way across the road, he assumed it was just that, some piece of equipment that had been left behind by a road-crew. Not that he could see much improvement in how his overloaded vehicle was riding; another case of layabout public workers just taking money from the public while doing little or nothing. As the lorry ran over it there was a pronounced "thump" and a definite bounce. Whatever it was had been a lot firmer and more solid than any empty hose had any right to be. There was never the thought that it was a serpent crossing his mind afterwards. This was sane and normal England, not some tropical hell-hole where such things grew long enough to choke an elephant to death!

So, like many another unsung and unsuspecting hero in the fight against evil, Willy never really knew the degree of his contribution to the public weal. And after all, his actions… driving into and over some wild animal… had become one of the leading causes of death for some creatures, a part of Nature's balance in an increasingly urbanized world. That a magical beast had succumbed to a mass of onrushing steel and rubber was just an incident in the ongoing conflict of beast versus motor vehicle. That Lord Voldemort would take such a philosophical view of things when or if he found out the final fate of his newest and most affectionate Horcrux was, however, unlikely. (2)

Author's Note:

Bathory Bath: named after Countess Erszebet (Elizabeth) Bathory, the Blood Countess. Accused and imprisoned for the murder of several hundred virgin girls in order to drain their blood and use it for magical rites to give her unending beauty and prolonged life. Note that there is no mention of an actual trial; her family was too politically important for something like that. A Bathory Bath is a magical ritual and rite which involves… bathing in lots of blood drained from virgins (pretty ones by preference). Special effectiveness might be attained by using the blood of the magical. Lowering the viscosity of the blood so that is seeps into every pore, crease and fold of the skin could only help, potions might do that. It would also help on cleaning up afterwards. Of course, diluting the blood would make such a bath less effective, so repeating it several times might be best… if the supply of virgins holds up.

Tom M. Riddle Jr.'s Table of Horcrux-May 31, 1993

Name Disposition

Harry Potter's Scar Destroyed by R. Lupin, P. I.

Slytherin Locket Destroyed by A. Dumbledore, Educator

Gaunt Ring Destroyed by A. Dumbledore, Educator

Ravenclaw's Diadem Destroyed by A. Dumbledore, Educator

Riddle's Diary Destroyed by H. Timmons, Student

Nagini the Adder Destroyed by W. Strongman, Lorry Driver

Hufflepuff's Cup Stored in Gringotts


	20. Chapter 20

I do not own, or receive any benefit, from the Harry Potter properties.

Remus Lupin P.I. Part 20-It's what you _think_ you know…

By Larry Huss

Lupin couldn't find it in his heart to blame Harry. The girls would_ have _to get their mental defenses up to snuff, but he doubted that would be anything they would have trouble with, considering their demonstrated mental acuity and willpower. The fact that they had evidently already sealed their lips with a Wizard's Oath (whatever this "Perfect Form" of it was) meant that a lovers' quarrel was unlikely to expose the boy to attacks by his enemies, or abuse by his friends. Lupin had no doubt that Harry _Potter_ would have to deal with both, if he ever showed up. The fact that both girls were looking after Harry with such a fierce possessiveness amused and comforted him.

It was Hermione, who was speaking at the moment; Cesar was glad it was on a practical and very unemotional topic. As soon as he had followed Remus into the heavily secured empty classroom he had had a very bad moment. Seeing Harry standing there, his arms around the waists of a brunette cutie, and raven-haired beauty, had immediately sent his mind down into an adolescent gutter of speculation. Hearing the cutie (who was familiar with the topic from hearing her parents hash out things of that nature around the supper table) discuss something he had always found irredeemably boring gave him a chance to slowly claw his way back up to god-fatherly adulthood.

"So, Harry's assets have been transferred into a mix of conservatively orientated Muggle mutual funds, as well as part ownerships in several well capitalized Magical firms that deal in essential services?"

Lupin replied, "With Harry's agreement we've put about 25% of his Muggle funds into some diversified IT and electronics, with the expectations of dividends and growth. Microsoft, Toshiba, and Cisco. He also has, beyond the funds needed for completing his education, about G 15,000 in available cash at Gringotts, and about £20,000 at Barclays, mostly in short term securities. I can have his balance sheets sent up to you, under personal-spelled security. The Potters, not being considered nobility, had no entailed properties or estates, so all the real properties associated with the family have been disposed off. With, it must be admitted, some small losses at the time due to the need for secrecy. Since then the monies received have more than recouped the losses."

Padma was relieved to hear that, though exactly what a Toshiba (etc.) was would have to be cleared up. In fact, a good deal of the financial stuff was currently in her "what's that?" zone, but she was confident that her ignorance wouldn't last long with 'Mione to pump for information. In any case, the sums she had heard indicated that Harry should have no problem buying a share of **Patil and Sons, Import/Export. **That would clear up almost all of the tricky bits at_ her _end. But after all, they had always realized the real difficulty would be on the Granger side of the equation. It wasn't that they didn't have three good alternatives if problems surfaced, but it would be better not to have to pull any surprise power plays out of their sleeves when confronting parents.

From there on everything went very smoothly, except for the part where Hermione had dragged Romanescu off into a corner, whispered something into his ear, and helped catch him before his sagging knees deposited him on the ground. People had a tendency to do that around Hermione, when her brain was working at full tilt.

When they were done, Padma had gone to the door, and carefully opened it so that Luna didn't fall in when suddenly bereft of support. It wasn't that she was nosy, exactly. Nor was it about her trying to gain some particular advantage or power over anyone. It was more about the challenge of breaking through some top notch privacy spell-work, and none of those who knew her were either surprised at her attempt, or worried about how she would have used the information if she had been successful in gaining it.

After they left the quartet to resolve their points of discussion, Lupin and Romanescu went to hunt down Flitwick, who had agreed to meet them between classes. Not everything that been discovered in the last few days had been in Lupin's note, and Tom Riddle being incarnate, and making some rather odd requests in the potion line, was certainly worthy of discussion.

It was only after several minutes into their meeting that Lupin could pin down exactly what was annoying him. While he was certainly not at his olfactory best while in human form, someone in the vicinity had evidently opened a fresh tin of lemon drops recently, and been indulging themselves freely thereof. A quick process of elimination allowed him to reach a conclusion.

"Actually, my throat's quite dry, perhaps if I could have one of your ever-plentiful lemon drops, Headmaster?" Lupin said, and put out his hand. There was a pregnant pause, and then Albus Dumbledore allowed his Disillusionment Charm to dissipate. After a moment of fumbling around to find the right pocket in his robe, the Headmaster was able to find a lozenge and give it to the detective.

It was slightly tacky, and there were some miscellaneous pieces of lint on it, but after making such a big deal out of discovering they were spied on (Lupin honestly didn't remember half so much sneaking around when he had been in school), he felt obligated to pop it into his mouth anyway. Luckily the lint on it didn't make him start to cough.

Dumbledore found the news about the excavations extremely interesting, and was eager to see the rough chart that Lupin had drawn of the most likely direction and extent of the work. He was, however, very dismissive of the importance of the other major topic of the meeting, and said that he had received the information from a different source and that it was being taken care with all the importance it deserved. How much importance was left more than a little vague, and the abrupt way he took charge and terminated the meeting shortly thereafter was less than satisfying to the visitors. The Headmaster dragged Flitwick out with him, and when Lupin and Romanescu left the Charms classroom they saw that a large poster had been put on the door saying that Charms classes were cancelled for the rest of the day, signed by the Headmaster. Good work, and very fast, as it hadn't been on the door when they had gone in a half-hour earlier. It must have literally been done as Dumbledore and Flitwick had been trotting down the hallway.

?

"You know, I have a load of really good torture schemes we never got to use on Peter. I'm sure we could have Snivellus up on a rack in no time. I doubt he'd delay telling us what was up with his Death Eater friends if you asked him nicely; with a growl, say." Romanescu was not someone to let a feud a mere fifteen or twenty years old die of neglect.

"After he did everything but put up fireworks to have Harry grab the note? And do you believe he hasn't already told Dumbledore what it means? I'd be surprised if he didn't break out the good booze to celebrate if we gave him a nice chance to confess all his sins," Lupin replied. "I just wonder why the Headmaster had to dash off with Filius all of sudden. I have such a nasty suspicion that the leading light of virtue in Wizarding Britain is about to engage in some more work for the Greater Good. I wonder whose ancestral silverware is going to get nicked for the most noble of purposes this time?"

"As a modern wizard about town I've discovered that there are a number of fine quality Muggle plastic-ware lines available for those who never really got cleaning spells down exactly right. You know, getting into those fiddly bits between the tines of the forks?"

By the time Cesar had finished that they had arrived at the entrance to Snape's well-buried apartment, so he reverted to his role as the quietly menacing man of back-up. Or perhaps the back-up man of quiet menace. He was certainly going to be quiet in any case; he didn't want Snape to have a chance to have an inspired leap of memory, and identify his voice as that of Sirius Black. There might not be (or perhaps there were) outstanding warrants for the ex-Lord Black, but to be revealed now would be awkward and embarrassing, especially for Andy and Dora.

By the time Snape had answered the knock at his study door, Lupin had his opening verbal gambit prepared. "Nine gallons, Professor? Why would you need nine gallons?"

The sheer relief that Timmons hadn't sat on information he had had handed to him acted as an amazing improver of Snape's usually erratic cordiality. True, Lupin was without official status (and he was also, after all, Lupin the Werewolf), but that was not necessarily a negative thing. Especially when it turned out that Lupin and his stoic friend were far more concerned (when it had been explained exactly what Fluunt Lenis in that quantity implied) than Albus had ever seemed to be. He even showed them the delaying order that had come in the day before, which had allowed him more time to sweat over things, or perhaps even to prepare something special.

When the two left, with a scheduled meeting for the next evening to more thoroughly go over their options with Snape, they tried to figure out what Dumbledore had thought more important than the imminent murder by exsanguinations of between seventy-five and ninety children in the next two weeks or so. Doing so showed that they had no real idea of why Albus Dumbledore was still the leading Light of British Wizardry. While their imaginations (or perhaps their morality) had kept them from attempting that great work, it was Albus Dumbledore (with the assistance of someone who could key into Goblin spells) who had put in a permanent, secret, back door into the vaults of **Gringotts Bank, **London branch.

?

He had to admit that Avery had done very well indeed with his selection. The Death Eater had earned full forgiveness. He had been sent on the important errand of selecting someone suitable for greasing the wheels (so to speak) of making Merlin's Staff into the Dark Lord Voldemort's seventh (and final possible) Horcrux. Macnair had managed to wiggle that bit of essential trivia from a lady Unspeakable at a little informal Valentine's party earlier in the year. Knowing the lady in question, Tom Riddle could only marvel at old Walden Macnair's dedication to the cause. Still, looks aside, the old hag (but not in the technical sense) knew her stuff, and splitting the soul more than seven times meant a great increase in the chance of it becoming fractured beyond repair. So the mystic number eight remained a limiter, even for the most powerful and skilled of the practitioners of the more forbidden arts. Seven Horcruxes and the living, embodied soul itself. Well, he could live with that.

Of course the pretty, bound, and panic-stricken brunette Sloan Ranger (1) wouldn't.

She had been whisked out of an alley she had gone into to get out of the wind; to light a cigarette. Avery was a bit old fashioned that way, and greatly disapproved of women smoking, leading to her selection. The friends who had gone ahead to hail a cab to take them all to dinner must have been mystified when she never rejoined them. Ah, life is full of mysteries, especially if you were a Muggle, and had your memory carefully ripped out if you ever actually _did_ discover what had happened.

Riddle fancied he saw a family resemblance in her eyes and high cheekbones. She probably looked much as his granddaughter would have, if he had ever gone in for things like that. Should that make him go slower, or faster he wondered? Slower, he finally decided; killing the Riddle family had been his greatest joy, after all. Things like that were to be savored.

He came to her, removed the only spell on her (a silencing one) and flashed what was once a charming smile, so many murders ago. He took his time, and enjoyed his work. And at the perfect moment, when her spirit could no longer stay in her slaughtered body, he used the soul-splitting spell to chip off the fragment of him that would exist in the Staff forever, and keep him alive forever. He used the spell, powered by his might and will, and shattered into a thousand unthinking shards.

The Staff in his body's hand acted as Merlin had created it to, fifteen centuries before. To power its many protective spells it reacted to the sudden flood of unorganized magical energy that surrounded it, and drank up all the necromantic debris and converted it to raw Magic. No personality, no will, no identity. The body that Tom M. Riddle Jr. had occupied slowly toppled over, and fell across the slowly cooling corpse of his last direct victim.

?

At last the screams had stopped. He had the most powerful privacy spells he could find throughout the house, but when the Dark Lord was having fun they seemed to all be turned off, and everyone got a chance to endure along with the poor sod that was getting punished. Lucius Malfoy took a deep breath, and went to the door of the tile-covered room where Voldemort had evidently completed whatever (though Malfoy had a strong suspicion) perversion of magic he was working on this time. If he survived the Second Coming of Lord Voldemort, Malfoy promised himself that he would never again get into the hands-on (sometimes up to the elbows) parts of politics. He diffidently knocked, waited… and knocked again.

After several minutes with no response, he repeated the cycle. Perhaps Voldemort had left the room? If so, Malfoy thought he should at least peek in and see if he should have the House-Elves start the clean-up. At least this time the Dark Lord had agreed to use the tile room; getting blood out of wool carpets was the devil's own work, even with magic.

On seeing the piled bodies, Malfoy was both startled and bewildered. Voldemort's homunculus was sprawled across the splayed corpse of the Muggle woman. From his lack of motion it did not appear that it was engaged in violating the body. Which, for sparing him a nightmare or two, Malfoy was duly grateful. It didn't seem to be vital at all, to appearances. No help for it then, a closer inspection was needed.

That inspection, followed by cautious spell work (casting spells on a Dark Lord is often discouraged. By the Dark Lord) confirmed Malfoy's suspicions. Dead or not, Voldemort was certainly not present. There was no note, no residuum of a spell of transportation or exorcism. Even after using a ritual of Darkest Magic Malfoy could only detect that there had been a death and a half in the room. A death and a half? The Staff of Merlin, lying in a pool of blood, but completely unstained or spotted seemed to…glow a bit. There was a feeling in the room of an appetite that had been satisfied. Lucius Malfoy knew creepy when he ran into it; this was creepy.

He left the room and summoned a House-Elf, leaving instructions that the room was not to be entered or tampered with until he gave further orders. He went up to Narcissa (after all, a good marriage is always a partnership) and told her of his discoveries down at the first basement level.

It hardly took her a minute to turn from teary-eyed dread to having one of _those_ looks in her eyes. Well, it wasn't as if another half-hour wait alerting the others would really matter under the current conditions, would it?

Somehow, one way or another, the half-hour stretched out into the next morning.

?

Two days later three men were admitted to Malfoy Manor, to be met by the Master himself with all courtesy. Lucius recognized Lupin of course; the detective had done some fine work for the family some years ago, and when Romanescu was introduced enough of Narcissa's table-chat about the social scene came back to Malfoy that he could identify him. Severus, of course, was an old friend.

To Severus Snape, Lucius seemed remarkably relaxed, considering how stressed out he had been in all their communications over the last few months. His affability and lack of concern at strangers being brought in to help deliver Voldemort's very special delivery seemed a tad out of character. That was disturbing, if one of his companions had leaked anything… at least a Potions Master was always equipped to take the quick way out. "Which one?" he wondered as Lucius lead them not into the some subterranean grotto or cave, but out past the Back Terrace to a slope overlooking a reed-fringed pond. There, under the eaves of a small stand of beech trees, there were two fresh mounds dug, one with a small boulder at its head, engraved with an inscription: "Generous Stranger."

It was then, in a voice as solemn and sad as any paid mourner's, Lucius Malfoy recounted the tale of some two nights earlier. The hideous screams, the hesitant entry, the startling revelation.

"I've been slowly informing the others that the big show is off, unless He shows up again," at which Lucius couldn't control a quick swivel of his head to see if some nasty surprise was being set in motion, "House-Elves, so sentimental. They insisted on putting up the little memorial when they buried the bodies. She gave her life, after all… and other things. Very generous. Least we could do."

Asking for a few moments to be alone with the victim/martyr, Snape stood with his traveling companions for a moment in silence. Then, certain that Malfoy was far off, and they were alone, he commented, "He had no barriers up, and no sign of memory alteration. It's true, as far as he knows, and the way the wards of this place are set up it would be hard to fake.

"The Second Rising of Voldemort wasn't very high at all. And we should have a respite from that direction at least, for this generation. Now would you gentlemen help me carefully dispose of nine gallons of Tri-Nitro-Glycerin? It is a task that should be done with all care, and I personally would be thankful to no longer be carrying it, shrunken in my pockets."

The motion passed, unanimously.

?

In the Lestrange vault at Gringotts, an ancient cup rested, secured by spells all around, and curses of awesome fury bound in itself. It also held the last spiritual remnant of Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr., Lord Voldemort the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. An anchor for a ship that had sailed, or perhaps better yet, shattered. All the Horcrux lore was true; as long as it existed there was something of Tom Riddle left in the world. Not that it was doing much of anything, or liable to. Still, like a broken statue in the sand, it was a reminder of a once great power and will, no longer of concern to any but historians. "Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

?

A week and a half later Abhik Patil stood on Platform 9 ¾, King's Cross Station, his wife at his side. They had just finished a rather nice conversation on the Other Side platform with the Grangers, whom they had met several times before over the last few school years and summers. Priyal Patil was usually at home, preparing a Welcome Home feast for her two student daughters, but this time she wanted to get an early look at this Harry Timmons fellow that her mother's instincts told her was going to be Padma's greatest temptation and greatest opportunity. Hermione she already knew well enough; when it had become clear that the twins would never be able to get along without skirmishing (around when they were three or so) Priyal had felt sad that they'd never have a relationship as close as the one she had had with her sister. Now she had no worries on that score, just the faintest suspicion that the two girls were not only thicker than thieves, but up to something outrageous and potentially embarrassing.

At last the crimson train shuddered to a stop, and the students began to pour out with shrieks of joy and many promises to get together during the summer. Three figures came directly up to the Patils, arm in arm in arm, while further off Parvati and Lavender realized they had mixed up half of their things when they had hurriedly packed that morning, and opened up their trunks to sort things out.

Harry Timmons was firmly held between the members of Team Cute (while Luna Lovegood rapidly scooted around to get a good photograph for the historical record), a smile on his face, but also with a look of great apprehension.

"Mother, Father," said Padma,"This is Harry Timmons, the man Hermione and I are going to marry."

The elder Patils gave a sigh of relief. A bit willful and precocious Padma might be, deciding things like this so young, but everyone knew a three legged stool was more stable than balancing on two stilts. And since Padma and Parvati never seemed to be able to get along (Unlike how Priyal and her sister Preeti had) they had been worried that the girls would be both be forced into unbalanced marriages. They had been worried that going to a progressive school like Hogwarts would fill their girls' heads with all sorts of modern rubbish, but it seemed that their native good sense had prevailed. Preeti would be over the moon when they got home and told her the news. She couldn't come today, being busy with their children Aapt (aged seven) and Abhirup (aged four), but with news like this there was definitely going to be a party tonight!

?

It was on a Friday toward the end of July when it happened. Remus was thinking of taking off a bit early and getting the family to someplace on the beach for the weekend. The magical au pair, a girl just graduated from Beauxbatons, would come along and watch the kids and give Phyllidia a bit of extra time for fun' she was set to start handling court cases again starting in September.

That was when Marcia McCartny came into his office, a little wobbly looking.

"Boss, I wonder if you can get a message to Professor Flitwick for me; he doesn't seem to be in the office rolodex."

It was then he noticed something loosely held in her right hand, something he had become familiar with last spring; a strip of paper from an Early Pregnancy Test, with the color indicating positive.

Author's Notes:

1-Sloan Ranger- Roughly equivalent to an American Preppy, but tending to a bit more rural and traditional lifestyle minded.

We attempted to add Chapter 20, the Final Chapter, several days ago, but difficulties ensued, and it did not show up properly. I offer my sincere apology to my readers.

If, to some, it seems that there are still unresolved threads, so it is in life in general. But I will give some basic hints of what will come, though not be written.

The Timmons-Patil-Granger nuptials go off with only moderate protests from the Grangers, who face the possibility of alienating the only source, after all, of their grandchildren. Patil & Timmons Import/Export becomes a major force in the international Magical economic community. Hermione prefers to engage in research and Housewifery, both of which she is extremely successful at. All told, for a decade it is a rare class at Hogwarts that doesn't have a Timmons added to the rolls.

Miss McCartny delivers a bouncing and healthy, if somewhat small, child who enters Hogwarts in the Class of 2007 or so. He is sorted into Ravenclaw, and becomes a celebrated Chaser.

Lucius Malfoy impresses on his son the benefits of staying out of both politics, and the Dark Lord Business.

While he does not become involved in events of quite such moment, Remus Lupin continues to provide service, and frequently justice, to those in need.

Phyllida Lupin returns to her legal career, and rises swiftly through the ranks. The children grow up happy and talented, and love animals.

Cesar Romanescu eventually marries, and has a quiet, and successful life of domesticity and journalism.

Albus Dumbledore wonders to his dying day what happened to Harry Potter, and why Tom Riddle continues to not show his hand. He finally retires full of years and honors, but still he wonders.


End file.
